


Let Go

by WritingDump



Series: Go On [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Reverse time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-07-04 07:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingDump/pseuds/WritingDump
Summary: Qui-Gon did not expect to die on Naboo. Nor did he realise that by insisting for Anakin to be trained as a Jedi, the boy would one day fall and become Darth Vader. Foresight, it seems, did not confer the gift of infallibility, yet if it took all those tragedies to destroy the Sith and restore balance to the Force and hope to the galaxy, then perhaps it wasn't so bad after all.Or, the story as happened in the movies is the fix-it, and this is the story of the disaster that happened before the time-travel happened.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really love all the time-travel fix it AU's that we have out there, but part of me can't help but think, 'but if we write a time travel and call it fix-it, then aren't we somehow dismissing Anakin and Luke's roles in bringing balance to the Force?'. And hence the idea for this fic was born.

Time flowed, grains of sand squeezing past the narrow isthmus of the hour glass to traverse from one hemisphere of the fourth dimension to the next. Just as there was no predicting the formation and destruction of individual sand mounds in the vast desert plains of Tatooine, there was no grasping the direction sands of Time was headed. In life, the only two constants were Change and Death.

Qui-Gon had experienced the first one many times over in his life. He swore never to take on another padawan, he struggled to let his padawan go; he was a strong proponent of the Living Force, he was a staunch believer of the Unifying Force; he was a Jedi, he was not. All that remained to life was the second inevitable constant.

The Sith Lord in front of him sneered, the heat radiating off the red lightsaber singing the skin on Qui-Gon’s throat. From this distance, the former Jedi could feel the reverberation of the kyber crystal screaming in agony as it hemorrhaged into the Force. The sound of it tore at Qui-Gon’s heart, a blunt dagger that gnawed a large, jagged trail through the cardiac tissue, leaving in its wake a wound which irregular edges cannot be properly opposed and can never completely heal. Once upon a time, that lightsaber had been his, and the crystal resonated in harmony with the Force to emit a brilliant green glow.

_He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword._

Funny how no one ever mentioned that the sword would be his own.

At ninety-tthree years, he was old by the standard of most sentients, an ancient if measured according to the average lifespan of his own species. He had seen and done things that were the stuff of legends; he had neither seen nor done enough. No matter. He had seen to it that the sacred Jedi texts were preserved, and stowed it on board the Millenium Falcon. From where he knelt, he could see Anakin and Padmé boarding the ramp leading up to the freighter with the last survivors of the Rebellion. Once they took off into hyperspace, it would be nigh impossible to track them down. At least, not with the current technology. Wherever they ended up, Anakin would be able to regroup and launch a new action plan. Even when he was only a boy, he had instinctively understood the will of the Force. This had not changed after he had grown up, despite not receiving formal Jedi training. With the knowledge from the Jedi texts, he would be a formidable opponent.

“Not so fast,” hissed the Sith, as if reading his thoughts.

The sound of blaster fire reverberated through the mountains. Out of the corner of his eyes, Qui-Gon saw the blue flare of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber being ignited but it was too late — despite his ability to sense danger in the Force, Anakin lacked the lightning quick battle reflexes every Jedi was trained for since infancy. He brought the lightsaber up, but was too slow to stop the blaster from slipping through his defences and connecting with the centre of his chest. Anakin fell.

Screams rose in the air as organisation gave way to chaos. Padmé gave a cry and stooped over her husband’s body, hands pressed against his chest in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. Han shouted for Luke to close the ramp but the ship remained stationery. Either the communication was lost in the din or Luke was paralysed with shock at the sight of his own father being shot. It did not matter which. What mattered was that mere seconds later, another louder blast filled the valley and the Millenium Falcon exploded, taking with it the last hope of the galaxy.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes in despair. The war was over. The victory of the Dark Side was complete.

“This is the end, Jedi.”

He felt the heat move away from his neck as the Sith raised the lightsaber for the killing blow.

_“If you could choose your death, Qui-Gon, wouldn’t you rather die in peace and comfort than violently in battle, in shock and despair?”_

Once, many years ago, O-Vieve had said that to him on the planet of Kegan. He had been disturbed by the question, but instead of paying it any heed, he had chosen to deflect it by pointing out that no one was allowed to choose their own deaths. He had thought then, that if his destiny was to give his life up in service of the greater good, so be it. Let his legacy be the peace of the world brought about by his actions and the actions of Obi-Wan. Now, standing before Death’s door, he could not help but wonder: Was it worth it, in the end? What was the point, when his death helped accomplish nothing? There was no peace. No Obi-Wan. There was only death.

_There is no death, there is the Force._

Qui-Gon had never been able to fully accept that particular verse in the Jedi Code. It had been an internal turmoil he faced every day of his life as a Jedi, from the time he was a padawan facing his first death on his mission with Master Dooku to long after he had been knighted and attained the rank of Jedi Master. Funny how it was only now, when the Code came back to haunt him at the end of his life, it suddenly made so much sense. Hanging by his fingertips on the precipice of life, he felt the Force beckoning to him, coaxing him to let go and receive his eternal rest.

But even as his body and mind accepted his inevitable death, his spirit struggled against it, fierce unto the end. There was life in him yet, and Qui-Gon Jinn would not so easily surrender himself to the Force.

Some things, it seem, never change.

Qui-Gon reached out into the Force, stretching his slender fingers past the murky darkness to the flicker of light at the end and _pulled_. Time slowed and the Force hummed in harmony. He felt the kyber crystal in the Sith’s hands reaching back in response, desperate for the master it had chosen for itself years ago. The hilt of the lightsaber began inching out of the Sith’s hands.

_Force, give me one last chance to make things right._

The Sith tightened its grip on the hilt and completed its swing.

Qui-Gon never felt the final strike that took his life. All he felt was the feeling of being sucked into a void, tumbling headfirst down a shaft of sand…

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan was no stranger to his master’s silence. Despite his massive frame, Qui-Gon rarely relied on his strength to resolve conflict, choosing instead to carefully strategise his way out of any tight spots he found himself in. He spent a great deal of time in meditation, and if Obi-Wan had not quite mastered the art of meditation the way his master had, he was at least capable of remaining still and doing his own thinking while his master was meditating.

All of a sudden, the Force surged, ripping through the intricately-woven fabrics that made up all things living and non-living like a bolt of lightning tearing through the sky. Attuned as he was to the Force, the disturbance sent a massive shock wave through him, singing the sixth sense that connected him to the Force. Obi-Wan staggered the same time his master’s eyes flew open. In an instant, Qui-Gon was on his feet, the lightsaber in his hands humming dangerously with an emerald beam. The brilliant blue of Obi-Wan’s own lightsaber flared to life only a fraction of a second later and the padawan leapt into action immediately, moving to place his back against his master’s so that they both covered all possible directions an enemy could come from. He didn’t know where the danger was coming from, but years of action with his master had allowed them to work together seamlessly like a pair of well-oiled cogwheels. They rarely needed to compare notes while in the midst of combat, each understanding the other’s intention perfectly in a way that even other Jedi found uncanny.

So when Qui-Gon whirled around to face him, lightsaber swinging in his direction, Obi-Wan found himself caught off-guard. Only years of battle-hardened instincts allowed him to swing his lightsaber forward in time to connect with the other man’s. Obi-Wan moved one foot to the back, using the momentum from the swing to guide Qui-Gon’s lightsaber away from his face. Master and padawan’s eyes met, and for the first time in his life, Obi-Wan felt pure terror upon looking at his master’s face — there was only one intent in the other man’s eyes — to kill.

As suddenly as it all started, it ended. Qui-Gon blinked and reeled back in shock, as if registering who he was fighting for the first time. He stepped back and for a moment, Obi-Wan felt relieved, certain he would retract his lightsaber. Instead, the man collected himself and shifted his stance into the basic offence position of Ataru, lightsaber held aloft, ready to strike Obi-Wan in a single swing.

“Who are you?” he demanded, voice low and threatening.

If the situation did not scream furiously of urgency, Obi-Wan would have been tempted to crack a joke. The current situation, however, demanded that he not take matters lightly. But what does one say to one’s master who had suddenly forgotten about one? Obi-Wan held his lightsaber to one side and adopted a defence position. Everything about the situation screamed, “Wrong!” to him. They were supposed to be working together to protect the Queen, not fighting against each other on her ship. Obi-Wan wanted nothing more than to retract his lightsaber, but he dared not. He had seen Qui-Gon move in battle times enough to know that despite his age, he could move with lightning agility when called for. Obi-Wan didn’t think he could defend himself against the Jedi Master if he needed to waste precious seconds to activate his lightsaber.

“Master,” he said, trying to keep his voice level as he tried to figure out what was wrong. Was this a test? It was unlike Qui-Gon to spring this sort of test on him in the middle of a mission where tension was already running so high. Besides, Obi-Wan highly doubted that burning desire to kill was an act.

Obi-Wan’s mind worked through the facts that he knew. They were sent on a mission for peace negotiations with the Trade Federation with regards to the trade blockade on Naboo. After the negotiations went south, they had escaped and saved Queen Amidala. They were now on board the Naboo Royal Starship en-route to Coruscant for the queen to meet with the Senate. His master was in the middle of a meditation when they felt a disturbance in the Force… His mind clicked.

“Was it a vision, master?” Obi-Wan asked. Against his instincts, he retracted his lightsaber and returned it to his utility belt, returning to a neutral stance.

As a rule, Obi-Wan did not get visions. Instead, he received premonitions, feelings about how things were going to turn out that was somehow exceedingly vague in nature yet overwhelmingly strong in conviction. Qui-Gon, on the other hand, received visions that were so real, it was as if he was living through it in person. It had happened most significantly before Tahl’s death and the vision had driven Qui-Gon to break character and travel to New Apsolon against the Council’s expressed disapproval. Could he have received another vision of some sort? Obi-Wan felt a stab of hurt. He could not guess at what sort of vision his master had had if it prompted the other man to treat him like an enemy.

Seeing Obi-Wan stand down caused Qui-Gon to wake from whatever vision it was that seized him. He blinked, looking terribly lost.

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon’s voice quivered with uncertainty and doubt, touched with a tinge of hope, as if he dared not believe what he was seeing.

The sound of an awkward cough caused both Jedi to turn as one to face the intruder. It was Captain Panaka, the queen’s personal bodyguard.

“Pardon my interruption, masters Jedi. Is anything wrong?” asked Panaka. He looked like he very much wanted to be doing anything at that moment but speaking to two crazed Jedi, yet someone had to ensure his queen’s starship was not unwittingly wrecked by two insane space magicians wielding laser swords, and as head of security that duty naturally fell onto him.

Obi-Wan threw a sideway look at his master. He wanted to assure the captain that nothing was amiss, but could he really say that when his master was acting the way he was? He reached out for the Force again, seeking guidance, and was once more rewarded with static for his efforts. Clearly, his senses had not quite recovered just yet. It reminded him of how he would lose the sense of taste for a few days after burning his tongue. He noted wryly that the same could happen for his sense for the Force as well.

Qui-Gon, for his part, looked like he had seen a ghost. His eyes darted back and forth uncertainly between the captain and Obi-Wan, looking like a cornered lothcat ready to pounce.

It was time to take charge because clearly Qui-Gon was in no state to do so.

“Captain, may I have a moment with my master please?” said Obi-Wan. “Alone.”

Captain Panaka’s temporal muscles twitched and he looked like he wanted very much to protest. After all, they were on _his_ ship, in close proximity to _his_  charge, swinging around deadly weapons that _he_  had no knowledge about. Then again, they were Jedi. After a moment’s struggle, he nodded.

“I’ll be standing guard outside.” He didn’t need to say, _to keep watch over you two._

Obi-Wan voiced his thanks. His master said nothing, uncharacteristically rude. Captain Panaka retreated from the room.

“What trickery is this?” demanded Qui-Gon. “Good effort, by the way. You got everything correct down to the finest detail.” Obi-Wan noticed the way Qui-Gon’s voice seem to waver and crack a little at the end, as if he was overcoming a great grief. “But you can tell Sidious this: he’s fooling himself if he thinks he can get me to join him by impersonating Obi-Wan.”

Now, Obi-Wan was truly bewildered.

“But I _am_  Obi-Wan, master,” he said. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he added, “Who’s Sidious?”

Qui-Gon frowned. Obi-Wan felt something stirring in the currents around him and realised that it was his master reaching out for him across their bond. He responded, stretching out his senses clumsily to connecting with his master like a man stumbling through the dark in the general direction of his bed.

Something connected.

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon’s voice shook, as if he wanted desperately to belief in what he said but was too afraid to.

Slowly, his eyes lowered to the lightsaber in his hands and he seemed to do a double-take. He took a step back and dropped the weapon, as if burnt. Freed from the grip of its wielder, the lightsaber deactivated, the hilt clattering harmlessly onto the floor. Obi-Wan noted with consternation that Qui-Gon’s hands were shaking.

“Master?”

Qui-Gon looked up. “What… I…” He took another step back. “This cannot be,” he whispered. “You were dead.”

Now, it was Obi-Wan’s turn to reel in shock. Dead? Was that what Qui-Gon saw in his vision? Before he could react, Qui-Gon had closed the distance between them and was caressing his face, tilting his face this way and that.

“Obi-Wan,” he whispered. There was a long string of emotions tangled up in that one word, and Obi-Wan didn’t even know where to begin to unravel this mystery. He pulled Obi-Wan into a tight hug, squeezing the breath out of him. “Obi-Wan,” he repeated. And then, horrors of horrors, he started crying.

Obi-Wan froze, unsure of how to react. Qui-Gon had only cried in front of him once before, and that was after Tahl’s death. He suddenly decided that he didn’t want to know what sort of vision his master had had to react this way.

This was going to be awkward.


	2. The Padawan (Obi-Wan)

_One week ago_

Obi-Wan Kenobi was in trouble. He should have smelt it coming the moment he returned to their quarters to his master’s invitation to “seek amusement”. Heck, the Force had even coiled around him in persistent loops, leaving him feeling lightheaded and queasy, but would he listen? No. He had been so desperate to get out of the madness that was spending days going through the properties of plants in class that he had willingly stepped out of the frying pan, trusting fool that he was, to find himself plunged straight into the fire.

Now, he grappled desperately at the slick surface of the icy protrusion, trying to find purchase to keep himself from falling further to no avail. Qui-Gon recovered from the fall in a flash and immediately reached out for him, but salvation came too late and his master’s hands closed around frosty air as Obi-Wan skidded right off the ledge. Despite the panic that threatened to overtake his mental faculties, he retained a presence of mind enough to remember to gather the Force around him and shoot it out beneath him in rapid blasts to slow his descent. The rough surface of the snowy cliff continued to rush past him in a blur, too fast for a safe landing.

What was it that Master Bear said again if they were falling from height? Roll on landing. Right. Roll on la-

A bolt of pain shot up Obi-Wan's body, his breath evacuating his half-frozen lungs in a whoosh of condensed mist as his right shoulder blade made first contact with the landing. The momentum of the fall spilt over, sending him skidding across the snowy surface even before the rest of his body slammed down. Vaguely, he registered at the back of his mind that he was lying on top of the lake he saw earlier.

A surge of danger in the Force surrounding him was the only warning he got and he barely managed to activate his lightsaber before a deadly beam from a blaster shot collided into the humming blue laser that flared to life before his eyes. The blaster beam ricocheted off the lightsaber, rebounding away from its intended flight path towards Obi-Wan's face off to Force-only knows where. Obi-Wan certainly didn’t. The padawan, ever the law-abiding Jedi, magically found time to mentally chide himself for the irresponsibility of the careless deflection — what if the deflected beam hurt some innocent bystanders? Kriff, you're such a _di’kut_ , Obi-Wan — before the impact of the collision shuddered up his arm through his lightsaber hilt, bringing with it a fresh jolt of pain to his abused right shoulder. The transference of momentum sent him skidding off in an angle to his original direction with renewed speed. He transferred his lightsaber into his good hand — _not good, only better!_  A lance of pain in his left arm reminded him fervently — as he leaned into the slide, rolling his body and springing onto his feet. Muscle memory took over the rest and he fell into the now-familiar Ataru opening stance — lightsaber held to one side, centre of gravity kept low, body poised to leap at any second. That he was holding the lightsaber to his left now instead of his right would be of little consequence. As with all Jedi, Obi-Wan was trained to wield his lightsaber in both hands.

His greatest adversary, though, came closer to home in the form of gravity, heat and a loud crack. Caught off-guard, Obi-Wan felt his heart soar to his throat as his body plummeted into the freezing depths of the lake. His brain scrambled frantically through the vaults of his memory for an algorithm — a sagely advice from his master, an action plan taught in class, _anything_  — to get himself out of the trouble he was in and the only data that came up allowed him to thumb the ignition switch over his lightsaber to deactivate it milliseconds before he plunged completely into the water. The biting cold sent his system into shock and ejected the balance of the breath from his lungs in the form of large air pockets that ascended hastily to the surface for salvation as they abandoned the sinking ship that was his body.

Panic rose in his chest and he wrenched it down like a beastmaster yanking on the leash of a nek dog before it could get out of hand. Years of field training had taught him much about his weaknesses and limitations, chief of which being his murky connection with the Force whenever he was panicking. Now, he reached out, groping for the Force that would once again save his life —

And grabbed onto something infinitely more physical. A bolt of recognition shot through him from the decade-old bond and he knew immediately that it was Qui-Gon's hand that he had caught. Fingers curled around his hand and before he knew it, he was being hauled up out of the water onto solid ground. The corner of his mind not preoccupied with not drowning registered wryly that he was standing right at the edge of the lake when he fell in. If he hadn't been so caught up panicking, he could have easily gotten himself out of trouble by taking a single step back. He felt a surge of annoyance at himself for his failure.

“Master, are you sure that when you said 'amusement', you didn't secretly mean _me_?” asked Obi-Wan, spluttering as he coughed up lake water.

The last time his master had told him that it was ‘time for some amusement’, they had landed themselves high in the snow-covered mountains of Ragoon-6 where Obi-Wan half-froze, half-starved to death and got attacked by a pack of malia before being saved by a tribe of local sentients who had had all intentions to make him their breakfast. Granted, it had been an excellent training exercise in survival skills and the breathtaking scenery made the experience all the more worth it, but a small part of Obi-Wan could not help but feel that the only amusement his master found in the entire trip, if any at all, came in the form of one padawan-sized glob of mess that floundered and flailed his way through the entire trek.

He looked up, panting heavily as his diaphragm worked tirelessly to ventilate his half-frozen lungs and made eye contact with Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan was positive that he saw a twinkle that was not entirely innocent in his master's eyes. The Jedi master opened his mouth.

“Next time, padawan, when standing on ice-”

What he should do next time was drowned out by a fit of hacking cough from the young man. Obi-Wan shivered and wheezed, air shrieking as they traversed through his constricted airways.

Instantly, all mirth fled from his master's countenance. Qui-Gon set to work immediately, strong hands guiding him further from the water’s edge while tugging at his sodden robes. Obi-Wan complied without complain, though he did manage to summon up a tendril of energy to protest when he felt the warmth of his master's cloak embrace his shivering body.

“You'll be cold without it!” Obi-Wan protested.

“As will you, padawan. And between the two of us, I dare say you need it more. Now come, let us head back to our transport before we stumble across another hidden trap.”

With that, Qui-Gon turned and began heading back to their ship.

Obi-Wan followed after a few steps before stopping and affording a glance back at the cliff from which he had fallen. A mushroom of dust still surrounded the top of the cliff where the collapsed cavern was, taking its time to settle. Several battle droids stood at the edge, having escaped the fate of their mates. They made whirling and clicking noises but did not continue in their pursuit, seemingly content to remain at their posts and leave the two Jedi be. Clearly, these were the older models of security droids that were programmed only to attack anything that came within a specific range of distance from where they stood guard rather than attack on sight of an intruder. Obi-Wan wondered at the wisdom of leaving this aggressive droids be, but decided that there was really no harm to it since the droids were more likely to freeze out in the unforgiving elements before another unsuspecting life form could think to pay an ill-advised visit to this desolate sphere of rock and ice and stumble upon them.

Turning back, he picked up speed to join his master.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan huddled in the co-pilot seat, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, doing his best to remind himself that the ten appendages wrapped around the cup in a death grip belonged to him. His brain certainly couldn't tell, for all the tactile feedback he was getting from them.

As soon as they were in hyperspace, Qui-Gon had set the shuttle to autopilot and disappeared to the back of the ship, only returning once to the cockpit to press a cup of tea into Obi-Wan's largely unresponsive hands. It had been an exercise in patience and humility as Qui-Gon helped uncurl his frozen fingers one by one before wrapping them around the cup. The older man had stayed for a moment, large hands cupped around his for a moment longer until he was sure the younger man could be depended on to hold the cup without shattering it, then he was off again, doing whatever it was that he deemed needed doing. Obi-Wan wondered what his master was up to. It wasn’t like the tiny _Kiros_  had much for him to explore. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that a pirate had just boarded the ship and was raiding their stores.

His fingers tinged with the sensation of being pricked by a thousand pins and needles, signalling that his sensory neurones were finally aroused from their state of deep hibernation. He waited until the worst of it had passed before testing them out, shifting the weight of the mug into one hand as he extended and flexed the fingers the other. He transferred the cup to his free hand and repeated the exercise. His knuckles and interphalangeal joints complained at the movement but was otherwise functional. Obi-Wan mused that he should perhaps be grateful that he did not lose any of them to frostbite.

Freed from the threat of digital amputation, he allowed himself to sink back into the chair, huddling in his master's large cloak, inhaling the familiar scent of his master. It was strangely comforting. The lingering presence of his master’s Force signature on the otherwise inanimate object lulled him into a sense of safety, secured with the knowledge that no matter how much trouble he was stuck in, his master would always be there to drag him out.

A cynical corner of his mind pointed out helpfully that it was usually his master who got him in the mess in the first place. If he would have just _listened_  to Obi-Wan and stayed put in the shuttle, they wouldn’t have stumbled into that cave in the first place and inadvertently activated the stash of hibernating battle droids.

Obi-Wan shook his head. Abregado-taki was the fifth planet in the Abregado system. Even though the ice-covered planet itself was home to no known sentients, the Abregado system itself was situated within the Core Worlds, at the galactic north of an important trade road. That it would become a base for smugglers to hide their goods should have been anticipated and prepared for. In many ways, it was better that the droids were discovered by them than some unsuspecting thrill-seekers.

He shifted in his seat and felt more than heard something crinkle. He straightened at once, instantly easing his weight off the whatever it was that had made the sound. A quick search confirmed the source to be a piece of durasheet tucked away in the sleeve pocket of the cloak. Sheepishly, Obi-Wan removed it and tried to straighten it out, praying that it was not something important. His fingers stopped moving when he registered the words written on the piece of durasheet.

_Let go_

Even though the widespread use of datapads meant Obi-Wan seldom had call to witness his master's handwriting, the inelegant scrawl was undeniably Qui-Gon's. The words were written clearly, the ink showing no signs of fading the way anything written on durasheet was wont to do after some time. It told Obi-Wan that the words were written recently. He frowned, heart pounding in his chest as he realised guiltily that he had quite possibly stumbled across something private.

Let go. Let go of what?

He recalled with a rising sense of dread Qui-Gon's pensive mood for the past few days. Up to a week ago, they had been tasked with one mission after another, to the point that they hadn't any time to return to the Temple on Coruscant, giving their reports and receiving their mission briefings via holocam while hopping from one planet to another. By the time they finally set foot back in their shared apartment, Obi-Wan had crashed onto the couch and threatened to be a permanent fixture there — and he would have done it too, if his master hadn't immediately displaced him to nurse his pots of plants.

The morning of the day of their departure, the two of them had headed out to the Senatorial Building to observe a meeting as a neutral third party. Qui-Gon had not thought it necessary to pass the plants off to someone else's care prior to leaving since the mission was supposed to take a mere two hours. Of course, one thing led to another and they ended up being ushered onto an aircraft before they had a chance to return to their quarters. In the four months they had been away, most of the plants had wilted. Obi-Wan, who had always been secretly jealous of Qui-Gon's plants, had felt a little guilty but was otherwise largely indifferent. At least, he was, until days later and he found his master still brooding.

Oh, Qui-Gon did his best to hide it, alright. Life went on as usual. They had their morning tea as usual, practised katas and sparred in the training salles as usual and meditated together as usual. They even exchanged lighthearted jokes and laughed at memories past as usual. Back at the start of his apprenticeship, Obi-Wan would not have noticed that anything was amiss. Now, though, Obi-Wan had twelve long years to study the man that was Qui-Gon Jinn and he could tell that he was in a pensive mood. Every night, after Obi-Wan bade him goodnight and retired into his room, the man would sit staring at his wilted plants that he had refused to discard or replace, caressing the leaves as if he could magically bring them back to life if he gave them enough attention. Obi-Wan had thought it odd then, but did not question it too much, caught up as he was with his own assignments. Now, he wondered if his master was really brooding about something else.

Just then, the consoles beeped, signalling that they were about to leave hyperspace. Obi-Wan leaned forward instinctively to turn off the alarm. As he did so, his eyes caught sight of the date on the display.

Oh.

He blinked and stared at the date again.

Oh.

It was the anniversary of Tahl's death.

Obi-Wan passed a hand over his face, incredulous at his own oversight.

Exactly eight standard years ago, Qui-Gon had suffered the loss of the love of his life. Even though the Jedi Master never said as much to him, it really wasn't hard to tell. Neither of them had been terribly discreet, and in many ways Tahl was as much a mother to him as Qui-Gon was his father. Obi-Wan's brows knitted closer together, remembering at last that one of the plants — the desert sage — had been a gift from Tahl.

_Oh._

He chewed on his lower lip nervously, recalling the months immediately after Tahl's death. Qui-Gon had been nearly catatonic, falling into a state of depression that he could not seem to pull himself out of. At sixteen years old, Obi-Wan did the only thing he knew how - he panicked. In all the years he had known the man, he had relied on Qui-Gon to be his pillar of strength, the one he turned to whenever he was faced with a conundrum. Even after that madness that was Jenna Zan Arbor where the Jedi master was badly weakened from being trapped in a chamber for days and drained of blood sequentially, Qui-Gon had not faltered, his mental fortitude more than making up for his physical weakness. After Tahl’s death, Qui-Gon had seemed content to spend days cooped up in his room, unmotivated to do anything. At times, it felt to Obi-Wan that the only reason his master was still breathing was because it was literally hardwired into a human’s brainstem to not allow themselves to die of suffocation.

Eventually, Obi-Wan had gotten the man to move by making a routine out of every day — sapir tea in the morning, followed by kata practise, then breakfast at the refectory. After that, he would head to class where he would proceed to spend the rest of the day worrying about his master left alone in their apartment. In the evening, he would bring dinner back to the man, pointedly not talking about the missed lunch, then spend an hour meditating with him. At night, he pretended not to hear the sound of his master sobbing alone in his bedroom next door. The situation had gotten so bad, the other Jedi masters had turned a blind eye to the deterioration in his normally stellar grades, offering private lessons to help him catch up — an offer that Obi-Wan did not take up on because he dared not leave his master alone for too long. After nearly six months with no sign of change, Obi-Wan had despaired, fearing the worst.

Then, one morning, Obi-Wan had woken up late and knocked over the pot of desert sage by accident in his rush to prepare tea. Neither master nor apprentice had been ready for the loud reprimand that was ripped out of Qui-Gon’s lips as he hurried forward to straighten the pot. That was when both noticed that the desert sage had started to wilt due to neglect. Before Obi-Wan could get over his bewilderment enough for hurt to set in, Qui-Gon had broken down into tears. Feeling awkward, he had placed a hand on the man's back the way he saw others did for someone who was crying. He didn't know what he expected to happen, but it was certainly not Qui-Gon turning around to embrace him. And just like that, he was crying too, pouring out his own pent-up grief for the dead Jedi master, a grief he had up to then felt he had no right to feel given his relatively inferior connection to Tahl as compared to Bant or his master. He cried for the cruel injustice of the world, for his friend Bant who had lost her master, but above it all, he cried for himself. He cried for the master he had lost, he cried for the frustration he felt at his own helplessness and he cried for the happy times that would never return.

From a young age, the Jedi taught him to release his emotions to the Force. Such a wanton display of emotion would be frowned upon by the Council, but he found that for once, he really didn't care about what the Council thought. After that, his master had opened up for the first time since Tahl's death, reminiscing of his days undergoing Temple training with Tahl as he tended to his plants. He showed Obi-Wan how to clip away the leaves that had wilted to allow new leaves to grow, gently knocking the back of the padawan's hands when he handled a vine too roughly.

Obi-Wan had been so wrapped up in their shared activity that he had lost track of time, though his master clearly had not as he kicked him out of the apartment five minutes before his class was bound to start. Then, when the master realised that there was no way Obi-Wan could make it in time without being late, he had walked his padawan all the way there himself. Master Cin Drallig had fixed the duo with an unimpressed stare, clearly not buying the lie Qui-Gon had made up on the fly, but too grateful to see the man functional again to call him out.

Things did not go back to normal immediately, but for the first time, Obi-Wan could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. It was then when Obi-Wan finally acknowledged grudgingly that there was perhaps some use to those pathetic lifeforms his master favoured.

And now it was gone.

And Obi-Wan hadn't even noticed.

The sound of footsteps approaching the cockpit dragged him out of his reverie, and Obi-Wan hurriedly stuffed the durasheet back into the pocket where it belonged just as his master entered.

“I _knew_  they had to have spares somewhere,” his master said as he sank into the pilot's seat.

Obi-Wan blinked owlishly at his master for two full seconds before he realised that the older man was holding out a bundle of cream-coloured cloth to him.

“You're distracted,” his master observed as Obi-Wan hastily received the bundle. The question remained hanging unspoken in the air: What's wrong?

“I was wondering who left the droids there,” said Obi-Wan, hugging the clothes in front of his chest like an armour, as if an extra layer of physical shield will help reinforce his mental ones. “Clearly they couldn't have gotten there on their own.”

Qui-Gon settled into the co-pilot seat beside him and swivelled around to face him. “So what's your conclusion?”

It wasn't actually possible to come to a conclusion about a subject that he just made up on the fly. Not that his master would know. Or maybe he did and this was him calling Obi-Wan out for lying to his master.

“I thought they could be smugglers. This planet is close enough to a trade route to not necessitate a massive detour, yet remote enough to have an outpost without being discovered. It would make sense for them to set up an outpost here,” Obi-Wan blurted.

Qui-Gon continued looking at him expectantly. Obi-Wan returned the look with what he hoped passed for a neutral expression while he panicked in his head.

What more does he want?!

Before Obi-Wan could cook up some foolish response and bury himself in more drek than absolutely necessary, Qui-Gon broke off his gaze and scratched his bearded chin with one thumb thoughtfully. His face betrayed nothing, but there was no mistaking the vague hum of disappointment through their training bond. Clearly, it wasn't quite the answer he was expecting. Not entirely wrong, but not quite enough either. It was, for all purposes, an excellent answer for a junior padawan. For a senior padawan not long before his Trials, his master clearly thought it was not enough. Obi-Wan fought against the urge to cringe or tighten his grip on the bundle of clothes or shift in his seat.

“There was easily two thousand droids in that cave,” Qui-Gon pointed out.

Too many to be a simple smuggling effort, too few to be a secret army prepared for war. Unless whoever it was broke the army up into tiny stashes throughout various locations all over the galaxy to make themselves untraceable. They could wake up next morning surrounded by an army of droids and be none the wiser. Guessing would only take them so far.

“We need to report this to the Council. Investigate further.” Which they should have done before leaving the planet, Obi-Wan realised.

“Which will be the first thing we will be doing as soon as we get this experimental fledgling of your friend’s safely back on Coruscant — a conclusion that you no doubt would have came up with had you actually been brooding over this matter for as long as the depth of the valley between your brows would suggest.”

Thus called out for blatantly lying to his master, Obi-Wan shot the man a sheepish smile, calling to bear the magic of his charming dimples that had been on more than one occasion his get-out-of-jail-free card.

“Your boyish charms will not save your hide from being flayed forever,” chastised his master in a disapproving tone, though the mirth of the suppressed laughter thrumming along their bond assured Obi-Wan that there was no heat behind that admonishment. “What’s wrong?”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with me, master.” It wasn’t a lie if it was an eloquent dance side-stepping the actual material in discussion. Except that this was Obi-Wan, and he would be kidding himself if he thought Qui-Gon would believe him if he ever declared nothing was wrong. “I'm just dreading your next amusement,” he clarified, affecting a sullen tone. Then, because it was always good to throw in a grain of truth in all lies, he added, “I've got a very bad feeling about this.” Because Obi-Wan was always having bad feelings about things, so much so that he suspected his master had since developed a spinal reflex for it.

Qui-Gon smiled and opened his mouth. Obi-Wan braced himself mentally for the well-rehearsed, “Do not focus on your anxiety, padawan.” Instead, his master said, “Maybe you could get a padawan to padawan yourself,” no doubt referring to Obi-Wan’s earlier lament that _he_  was Qui-Gon’s amusement.

Qui-Gon said it lightly, but Obi-Wan felt his heart seizing with fear in his chest. Get a padawan? He could only get a padawan if he was a Jedi Knight, and the braid that hung heavily on his chest was a constant reminder that he was not. Surely his master was not thinking of recommending him for the Trials _now_ , of all time? Distantly, Obi-Wan was aware that he was at the age when most padawans took on their Trials of Knighthood. However, he was also aware that routine was the best cure for depression, and he feared what would happen if his master no longer had him to be around to drag him out of their apartment. Would he have any motivation to do anything at all? This time, he did not even have the excuse of taking care of his plants.

He opened his mouth, rummaging through his brain for a reason, an excuse, a lie, _anything_  to dissuade his master.

“But that won’t be for some time yet,” his master continued, frowning at a thought, seemingly oblivious to his padawan’s state of mind.

Obi-Wan couldn’t decide if he was relieved that his master wasn’t planning on recommending him for the Trials after all, or disappointed that his master thought that he wouldn’t be ready for quite some time.

The sound of the console beeping again to signal that they were leaving hyperspace saved him from a response. Qui-Gon leaned forward to study the console, one finger flicking off a switch.

“It would appear that we’re arriving on Coruscant soon.” Qui-Gon paused and gave Obi-Wan a critical once-over look. “Far be it for me to provide advice on fashion, but I do believe that walking around with nothing on but an over-sized cloak is the fastest way to get detained by CorSec.”

“ _Jedi_  cloak, master,” Obi-Wan retorted. “They wouldn’t dare.”

Qui-Gon crossed his arms. “I want my cloak back.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth.

“And no, I do _not_  want to hear some lousy story about the Chancellor’s New Clothes.”

Snarky rebuttal thus thwarted, Obi-Wan sighed and backed out of the cockpit, heading to the back where the tiny refresher was. As he stood inside its cramped confines, turning the dial for the temperature of the sonic shower up, he wondered about his next course of action. He certainly couldn’t remain as Qui-Gon’s padawan forever. Eventually, he would need to learn to let go and trust his master to be able to handle things on his own — he certainly managed well enough on his own for close to half a century before Obi-Wan barged head-first into his life and claimed half his living room couch.

Obi-Wan sighed. He had a bad feeling about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick heads-up: We'll be going a little further back in time again next chapter. The story should run chronologically from there on.  
> Also, this fic isn't meant to be read as angst, so don't sweat it lol.


	3. The Master (Qui-Gon)

_One month ago._

Qui-Gon was decidedly not amused. Over his decades-long service to the Jedi Order as the unofficial specialist of getting the job done via unconventional means, Qui-Gon had accepted being called for duty at the eleventh hour as the norm rather than the exception. If his missions over the past twelve years had fallen more into the realms of normal scheduling, it was more due to special considerations afforded him in view of his padawan learner rather than the universe finally learning how to get their shit together and requesting for help early instead of holding it off to the last minute and then requesting for emergency intervention. He knew that as soon as Obi-Wan was knighted, it would be back to being commed in the middle of the night to head off to some war-torn Outer-Rim planet a hair’s breadth away from complete annihilation, so as a rule, he only ever kept plants that were capable of surviving extended periods of drought in his rooms. If he made Obi-Wan send them off to another Jedi to care for prior to embarking on a new mission, it had less to do with the plants actually needing the care and everything to do with teaching Obi-Wan care and respect for all living things.

So when he returned from a four-month long mission to find not one, but _all_  of his plants wilted, he had immediately suspected foul play. Still, it was a curious sort of trespasser who dusted the entire apartment and took pains to air out the quarters. He pressed a finger into the soil of one of his pots, feeling the dampness of the earth. He inspected the plants again and thought he knew the answer. All there was to do now was to wait to see if he was right. Mind thus decided, he settled onto his meditation cushion and sank into a relatively light meditation.

Despite what the outside world may think of the supposedly monastic and peaceful lifestyle of the Jedi, the truth was that not even Jedi Temple was entirely free from the cacophony that came with a thousand lifeforms living together in close proximity going about their daily life. Where many found the hubbub discordant and obnoxious, Qui-Gon had revelled in it, having a deep appreciation for every soprano, alto, tenor and bass that contributed their vocals to the four-part harmony that was the song of the Living Force. If there was an occasional tone-deaf individual who brawled his way through the entire tune like a bantha charging over a bed of roses, it served to add variation to an otherwise repetitive melody. As the day gave way to the night, the song quieted into a soft, contented hum as one-by-one, the residents of the Temple called it a day and turned in for the night. Here, Qui-Gon found it easier to turn his focus to specific individuals — Jocasta Nu, the Temple archivist who went about returning holobooks and datapads to their original shelves before closing the library for the night; Master Windu, who practised his Vaapad kata alone in the training salles away from the prying eyes of younglings; Master Dooku, who was engaged in a game of galactic chess against Master Ki-Adi-Mundi in his quarters; a Mon Calamari padawan, who had just returned to the Temple with her Nautolan master after a particularly trying mission but chose to excuse herself in favour of heading off in another direction over returning to her shared living quarters with her master.

Slowly, Qui-Gon drew himself out of meditation. The time was right. As he moved across the living space to the kitchen, he noted that Obi-Wan had cleaned up the mud that he had accidentally tracked in earlier that day and thoughtfully dimmed the lights instead of leaving them on or outright turning them off before retiring to his room. Qui-Gon felt a surge of pride for the young man. Over the years, he had learnt much by way of responsible living. Where the boy’s private room had once been a constant war zone with the excess shrapnels and debris from explosions overflowing into their shared living quarters, Obi-Wan now kept his living quarters de-cluttered and in a pristine condition, the very model of monastic living. There was no doubt that he would handle himself well in the Knight’s Billet.

He pondered over this as his settled into the familiar rhythm of making tea. He had just finished preparing a fresh pot of tea when he heard a soft knock at his door. He answered the door and welcomed the Mon Calamari sweating nervously at his doorsteps.

“Master Qui-Gon,” she greeted nervously, giving him the customary bow.

“Bant, please, do come in.” Qui-Gon turned around and headed back to the kitchen counter, leaving the door hanging open. He knew that he could trust Bant Eerin to close the door after her. Sure enough, he heard the door click mere seconds later.

“Kopi tea?” he asked, motioning for her to take a seat.

Bant took the proffered seat and accepted the cup. She studied the dark liquid for a moment, tilting the cup this way and that under the light curiously as she scrutinised the orange reflection. Qui-Gon saw her throw a discreet glance at the white light glowing from the ceiling.

“I suppose I have you to thank for keeping my apartment in order,” Qui-Gon began conversationally.

He took a sip of the tea and watched Bant. If truth be told, Qui-Gon wasn’t a fan of kopi tea. He found the tea too sweet for his taste, but he could appreciate the calming effect it gave, and it was infinitely easier to find a quality batch on Coruscant than the ever-elusive sapir.

Bant Eerin swallowed. “I’m sorry, Master Qui-Gon.”

Qui-Gon’s brows rose. “You took the effort to come all the way here after a long day to help tidy up my place. That’s hardly something to apologise for. Even my own padawan is sound asleep in his room and couldn’t be bothered to make his old master some tea.” Not that he wanted Obi-Wan to make him any. It was merely a statement of fact.

Bant bowed her head, chewing nervously on her lips. Qui-Gon took another sip of his tea and waited. She squirmed in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

“I did my best. Really, I did. I remembered that Obi-Wan always had to entrust your plants into someone else’s care whenever the two of you left for missions, but the last one you left on had been so abrupt, he didn’t have time to do it. I didn’t want to presume too much by removing your plants out without permission, so I took it upon myself to come and care for them whenever I could,” Bant explained.

The irony of her letting herself into their quarters without permission was completely lost on her — Bant had spent so much time in here during her days as Tahl’s padawan that it became almost like a second home to her. Even after Tahl’s death, she had kept up the habit of visiting, though this time with fellow padawans Garen Muln and Reeft to study with Obi-Wan. The rule of silence enforced in the library wasn’t exactly conducive for group discussions, the refractory proved to be too rowdy for studying and most Jedi Masters found having a gaggle of young ones constantly underfoot annoying, which left them with Qui-Gon, who didn’t mind the company of the youths at all. If anything, he enjoyed letting someone else take over the endless chore of nagging his padawan to pick up after himself. By now, she probably knew her way around Qui-Gon’s kitchen cabinets more than she did Kit Fisto’s.

“Except that I’m rarely around myself,” Bant continued sheepishly, “So I thought, maybe if I gave the plants enough water, it would be enough to get them through the days they had to go without, except that my plan clearly wasn’t working and…”

Trust the aquatic youth had to kill his desert plants in her overzealous attempt to keep them hydrated. Suspicion thus confirmed, Qui-Gon smiled, the corner of his lips curling upwards as he continued to listen to the Mon Calamari’s story. Years ago, when the Temple was plagued with a sudden influx of petty thefts, he had found himself drawn to her innocence and sincere desire to help. Over the years, the former had been tampered down somewhat, replaced by knowledge and experience, though the latter proved to be so deeply rooted into her being, no amount of evil deeds in the universe could weed it out of her.

Briefly, Qui-Gon contemplated the wisdom of telling a girl who nearly died of drowning herself that she had inadvertently drowned his plants. He discarded the caution as soon as it arose in his head. The girl herself had shown surprising maturity immediately after the event, showing no hesitation to return to the lake in which she had nearly died in her decision to remember, choosing to embrace the beauty of the world as it was over being haunted by the ghosts of the past. Besides, the girl was now a young lady not long before her Trials. She should be taught to take responsibility for her mistakes, even if they were mistakes done out of good intentions.

“Come here, Bant,” said the Jedi Master, beckoning the girl over to the low table where he had lined up his pots of plants. “Do you know what plant this is?”

The salmon-coloured amphibian turned a brighter shade of red.

“Umm… No, Master Qui-Gonn.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “This is a desert sage.” He proceeded to launch into an introductory course of each plant and their natural habitat, explaining each one’s mannerisms in the tone of a master imparting knowledge to his padawan. It took her exactly five seconds to understand where she had gone wrong. When he noticed this, Qui-Gon broke away from his lecture and reminded her gently, “There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.”

Bant paused for a while to let the words sink in. She nodded, all traces of embarrassment gone. “I am taught,” she replied, reciting the traditional words offered by padawans to their masters upon receiving worldly wisdom.

Qui-Gon smiled and continued on. Bant listened with rapt attention, marvelling at how each plant were made to endure different environments. He felt a familiar fondness for the Mon Calamari warming up his heart. She had displayed quick wits and a willingness to learn back when they first met, and Obi-Wan had immediately picked up on his master’s fondness for his friend upon his return to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. However, he had been wrong to assume that Qui-Gon wished to take her on as his padawan — Qui-Gon adored her the way a teacher adored a particularly gifted student. His shared bond with Obi-Wan, however, was one of a kind and irreplaceable.

Later that night, long after Bant Eerin had left, he sat staring at the pots, musing about Obi-Wan. Back when he had first taken the boy on as his padawan, he had explained to the boy that “when the Padawan teaches the Master in turn, the partnership is right.”

Over the years, they had learnt from each other and both had grown in knowledge as a result. However, recently, Obi-Wan had started to reach a plateau in his learning curve. There was little else Qui-Gon could teach him and the master knew that to continue to hold on to him would be folly. Sure, he still had a propensity for unnecessary flairs during combat and tended to waste an awful lot of energy worrying about the future rather than focusing on the present, but those were things that he would have to learn to overcome through experience. No amount of nagging from an old man would help. He recalled their mission together to Vorzyd 4 eight years ago, when he had noticed for the first time that Obi-Wan was close to being ready for his Trials. Along with that observation came the realisation that he was reluctant to part with his padawan. Back then, he had chosen to push the troubling thought aside, secured in the knowledge that it wouldn’t be for several years yet. Now, however, the issue loomed over his head and there was no way out of it.

He spent the next few days brooding over the issue. Obi-Wan, on his part, was too preoccupied with completing his assignments to spare him any notice. In truth, Obi-Wan had long since completed all the required coursework and only needed to concentrate on his padawan training until Qui-Gon proclaimed him fit for trials. However, when Bant turned up the day after their return inviting him to sign up for a short course on herbology, he hadn’t been able to refuse. Not when she had played the guilt card reminding him of the many courses she had signed up for merely for the sake of keeping him company.

So while the young man was out suffering through hours of classes like a junior padawan, Qui-Gon had set his mind to work, figuring out how to best spend their last few weeks as master and padawan. He studied the wilted desert sage that Tahl had given him years ago, feeling a little sad over the loss. Over the years, the plant had become somewhat of a friend to him in its own rights and its presence would be missed, though that had nothing to do with Tahl. He had enough memories of Tahl to go by without needing to cling on to a memento she left behind. Unbidden, memories of their time together on Ragoon-5 came to mind. He wondered if it was possible to create a memory unique for both him and Obi-Wan. Sure, they spent many years in life and death situations together and had memories enough to last a lifetime, but those memories were often tainted with violence and pain and involved many other outside parties.

 

* * *

 

Even though it was built on a planet that was a metropolitan unto itself, the Jedi Order was one that ultimately appreciated peace and tranquillity — both desirable criteria for quality meditation. As such, over the centuries, even as the Temple continued to grow upward and outward to accommodate its ever-growing population of Jedi, builders had taken great pains to recreate a semblance of nature within its walls. Lake Level, a five-story compound that simulated the ambiance of being on the surface of a planet complete with a landscape teeming with a myriad of thriving flora, a curved dome that reflected a clear blue sky, an artificial sun that rose and set with the hours of the day, and a ventilation system set to generate air movement reminiscent of a gentle breeze, was the greatest culmination of those efforts. As a padawan, Qui-Gon had spent much of his time swimming in the lake and basking in the artificial sun. As a Jedi Master, he had found that his presence often intimidated younglings into silence and they would all leave one after another soon after. It had been an unsettling experience, and he had since learnt to seek solace within the other artificially-created nature within the Temple, a place where his presence would cause less of a disturbance, owing not a little to the fact that the average age of the population who frequented the place was decades older than that of Lake Level.

“Troubled you are, if the gardens you seek,” said a familiar voice, momentarily shattering the tranquility within the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

Qui-Gon gave the Grand Master of the Order a questioning look from where he sat on a stone bench next to a fountain. Yoda had said the very same words to him in that exact same spot years ago, shortly after Qui-Gon had left Obi-Wan on Melida/Daan to fight in a war that he had no hopes of winning.

“Not troubled, merely seeking inspiration,” Qui-Gon clarified, moving over in his seat to allow space for the grand master to sit.

Yoda hopped up onto the bench with an ease that belied his age, and Qui-Gon found himself wondering once again along with the rest of the Temple residents if the gimer stick was really more an instrument of punishment than a walking aid.

Before he could dwell on the thought for long, Yoda spoke up. “Ah. Inspiration you say? When inspiration you fish, fishing you go.”

By now, Qui-Gon had long since accepted that there was no fighting the grand master and had resigned himself to the fate of simple going along with Yoda’s ‘suggestions’. The diminutive master would be getting his way either way. Better get it done and over with as soon (and as painlessly) as possible. One had to learn which battles were worth fighting for quickly from a young age within the stifling hierarchy of the Jedi Order, and this one certainly did not qualify as worth fighting for.

“Do you have any suggestions, Master Yoda?”

“A planet, I know. Uninhabited it is. In the Abregado system, it lies. To Abregado-Taki, you go, if quality fishing you seek.”

Qui-Gon paused, giving it some consideration. He knew that the Abregado system was located within the Core World and that the planet Abregado-taki was the fifth and furthest planet from the system’s sun, Anza. The system was famous for its state-of-art manufacturing systems, but Abregado-taki did not naturally host any sentients, and despite its proximity to trade routes, the rest of the galaxy had never found compelling enough reasons to populate the place — the planet was covered year-round in snow so deep it would put the spires of Coruscant to shame. Once one could get beneath the ice, the planet surface was made up of rocks that were too brittle to hold up the foundation for a building. The lack of fertile soil made it unsuited for plantation and animal herding, and there were no precious minerals to be had on the planet. It was, in simpler words, a perfectly desolate place. Qui-Gon reserved his doubts about the quality of fish he could get from there. Then again, he had to admit grudgingly that more often than not, Yoda was right in his predictions. If anything, eight centuries of meditation had helped Yoda find balance within the Living and Unifying Force, and he could walk the fine line between being mindful of the future without losing focus of the present at the same time. He knew when to watch and wait, and when to act promptly. That said, no one was entirely free from personal bias and mistakes, not even Master Yoda, which was what prompted Qui-Gon to say,

“I will meditate on it.”

The response was swift and deadly. One moment, he was sitting upright on the stone bench and the next, he was leaning forward, nursing a smarting blow to the back of his cranium. He threw a glare at Yoda, who retained a regal pose on the chair and looked for all the world as if he never so much as moved a muscle. He shuddered to think what a formidable opponent Yoda would have made in his youth. The Jedi Master had a way of moving in tune with the Force, so much so that not even the most advanced of Jedi Masters could pick up a hint of warning from the Force before the strike came. Trying to resist typically yielded the same level of success as an infant at a game of peek-a-boo with an adult, which was to say, the only way to win was if the green master let you.

“Mock me you will not, young padawan,” said Yoda in disapproval.

Qui-Gon could not help but give the master a petulant look. He was almost six decades old, for crying out loud. Sure, it was like holding a match stick against a sun when compared to Yoda’s age, but that did not change the fact that ‘young’ had not been an adjective used to describe him in a long time. Then again, Yoda probably remembered all of them as brawling younglings in diapers. The thought was strangely mortifying.

“I assure you that was not my intentions,” said Qui-Gon, bowing his head in supplication. “If I had,” Qui-Gon slowly reached out for the Force, drawing it in in slow measures and concentrating it around his legs, “I would have said, ‘meditate on it, I will.’”

He leapt away the same time Yoda’s gimer stick flashed, though he was not nearly fast enough to spare the back of his knee a glancing blow. Well, you get what victory you can, though Qui-Gon was sure Yoda had deliberately let him off easy.

“Much insolence I sense in you,” muttered Yoda, tottering off the bench. “Meditate on this you will.”

Qui-Gon sighed, watching the grand master leave. The truth was, he did not possess the affinity for the Unifying Force as both Master Yoda and his padawan Obi-Wan did. If he meditated on it, he would only turn up more blanks.

The thought gave him pause. Obi-Wan. He had been so preoccupied with figuring out what to do for both of them, he had clean forgotten that the young man should be allowed a voice in the decision making.

“I am taught,” Qui-Gon whispered into the space where Yoda had disappeared into.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think of leaving for a while to seek amusement?” Qui-Gon asked as soon as Obi-Wan stepped into their quarters that evening.

His padawan paused in the middle of removing his boots, one hand resting on the door frame for balance. As he processed his master's words, his brows worked themselves together into a frown that already threatened to leave a permanent trench on the youth's forehead. He looked positively harried, as if he had just survived an entire day's worth of soap opera in action only to find himself being invited to another one.

Qui-Gon watched as the young man rubbed a thumb pensively over the door frame. There were similar smudge marks running up that frame corresponding to Obi-Wan's growth in height, a testament to how often he was made to think while standing in the exact position he was in. Not for the first time, Qui-Gon wondered how it came to be that he was famous for his peace in the Order when he could not even wait until his own padawan had completely crossed the threshold into their shared residence before bombarding him with questions.

“Where to?” Obi-Wan asked carefully.

The reply came easily. “Abregado-taki.”

“Lifeforms?” he asked without skipping a beat.

“I was hoping we could find out together,” Qui-Gon suggested mildly. What he really meant was, _I have not the faintest idea but I'm not going to admit it because if I do, you're going to say no._

Obi-Wan blinked. Once. His eyes swivelled to the right and he blinked again. Twice. They darted to the left and blinked once more. Thrice.

“Oh.” He bent over and removed his boots. Right first, then left, in reverse order from how he liked to put them on. “Okay then,” he mumbled to his knees.

Now it was Qui-Gon's turn to blink. Really? That easy? No bad feelings or anything?

“As long as you get me away from here,” he griped. “If I had to learn one more classification for plants, I shall go mad.”

That explained his padawan's willingness. If his master did not know of the lifeforms on the planet they were going to, then he was safe from being tested about them.

“Can we go fishing?” Obi-Wan asked all of a sudden. He sank heavily into the other half of the couch. “I think fishing is a good idea.”

Qui-Gon's brows sailed neatly off his forehead and lodged firmly in the ceiling of their shared quarters.

“That sounds like a plan,” he said carefully, nevermind that the planet was covered with snow, the Jedi archives had no record whatsoever of the local flora and fauna — which tended to mean there was none to be had — and he only had Yoda's word that it was a good idea to fish there. How they were supposed to find fish in snow was beyond him.

_The Force works in mysterious ways._

Obi-Wan, in an uncharacteristic display of confidence, had no qualms.

“Good. I'm in.”

And that was that.

 

* * *

 

That night, as Obi-Wan slept, Qui-Gon sat once more in the couch facing his array of dead plants, attempting to meditate. However, peace proved to be elusive, always dancing outside of his reach. Over and over again, he found himself drawn back to his plants. It was past time for him to discard them, he knew. Why he hadn’t done so earlier was a mystery to him. The Force poked at him, whispering that there was a lesson to be learnt here, though what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

Qui-Gon thought of the plants, many of which he had cared for since they were seedlings. As they grew, he had been forced to repot a few of them, sometimes more than once to accommodate their growing roots, lest they be choked in the cramped space and die. Before he left on his last mission, all of the plants were fully matured and by no means vulnerable saplings. Yet here they were, so easily dead as soon as he turned his back on them.

The Force nudged him now, telling him that his mind was straying down the wrong path and steering his thoughts elsewhere.

He turned his mind instead to how Bant had accidentally caused harm out of her intention to do good. Was the Force trying to tell him that holding Obi-Wan back was causing more harm to the boy than good? He turned his attention back to his first line of thought. But it was exactly because he left his plants unattended to that his plants had died.

 _They wouldn’t have, if you had transferred them into the garden rather than another pot_ , a voice in his head chided. That wasn’t true, of course. One didn’t spend years communing with the Living Force to be so foolish as to believe that there existed a single soil type that was conducive for the growth of all plants. Except that the soil in the Temple gardens _were_  suitable for his plants. Hadn’t he seen hundreds of similar species when he strolled through the gardens? He just wasn’t willing to let them go.

He thought of how Obi-Wan had immediately gotten the same thought as Master Yoda. The boy was strong in the Unifying Force in a way that he was not, and Qui-Gon had a suspicion that he had long since learnt all that he could from Qui-Gon about the Living Force years ago. There was nothing more that Qui-Gon could impart to his padawan. He sighed, resolved to bringing up the topic to Obi-Wan during their short vacation off-planet. Something told him that Obi-Wan needed to hear it from him first to mentally prepare himself and would not appreciate having news of his Trials sprung upon him as a surprise.

“He’s a man grown now, Qui-Gon. It’s time to let go,” said a voice that sounded a lot like Tahl’s.

Qui-Gon drew in a deep breath.

 _He’s ready,_  Qui-Gon thought.

He exhaled, expecting to feel relieved of his burden. Instead, he felt strangely hollow. An overwhelming sense of loneliness echoed within the empty depths of his heart, gaining in intensity each time it reflected off the walls of the fortress that Qui-Gon had built in his heart, except that instead of keeping enemies out, the fortress was locking them in, preventing his greatest nemesis from escaping. Rationally, he knew he needed to take the fortress down, but the task seemed daunting. He had spent his entire life building the structure up stone brick by stone brick. It was his legacy, the only thing that gave purpose to his life. The day he tore it down was the day he lost hope in the Jedi.

Qui-Gon gritted his teeth. In that case, the only way was for him to eliminate his foe from within, and the greatest enemy to loneliness was companionship. He thought of the camaraderie he shared with the Jedi Order, and knew it had to be enough. Obi-Wan was his padawan, but after attaining knighthood, he would work alongside him as his colleague, partner and friend. He would be his equal, and that was the greatest gift of all. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he could not help but feel that the conviction was strangely out of place.

 _Never_ , the Force whispered in his mind sorrowfully. _You will never work alongside him as Jedi to Jedi, but you must let go._

Qui-Gon emerged slowly from meditation, surprised to find his cheeks wet with tears. He had expected to find clarity, yet was filled with more questions than answers. He inhaled slowly, finding his centre and steadying himself before exhaling. Despite everything, one thing had felt right. It was time for Obi-Wan to face his Trials. Finding a stack of durasheet at hand, he grabbed one and resolutely penned “Let go”. He stuffed the durasheet into the pocket of his sleeve. He would need the reminder if he was to summon the determination and courage to break the news to his padawan.


	4. Transport (Qui-Gon)

The Abregado system, or more specifically, Abregado-rae, the system’s third planet was located right at the start of the Rimma Trade Route and dealt in commerce frequently enough to see a steady flow of traffic entering and leaving the system on a regular basis. In theory, that made hitching a hike to their destination a simple one. In practice, the frozen fifth planet was fervently avoided as much as the molten first planet, which translated into rejection by every pilot they had approached.

Midday found them making their way through the crowded streets of the Temple district, Qui-Gon strolling along at an easy pace while Obi-Wan strode along beside him in quiet, confident steps, exuding and aura that was both authoritative and inconspicuous at once. The crowd parted way before them like soft butter before a knife, though no one spared them more than a single, cursory glance. Qui-Gon allowed himself a small smile when he recalled their early years together when Obi-Wan used to traipse sullenly behind him because he could not navigate through the crowd as easily as his master did. He possessed more grace now. Not exactly in the same manner as Qui-Gon's which helped him become one with the crowd, but one that exuded a comfortable sense of self-assurance that kept him safely in the middle ground, neither fearful nor arrogant.

“Shall we review what we know?” asked Obi-Wan suddenly, breaking the silence. He affected a severe expression, brows drawn together, eyes burning with determination. The slight dimple in his cheeks and the Force swirling around him in playful pale yellow waves betrayed the jest for what it was.

Qui-Gon threw him a withering glare for making fun of his maxims. Obi-Wan met his eyes with a too-innocent blink. The Force flared into a flared into a bright golden glow as the padawan broke out into pealing laughter and expertly ducked the blow aimed at his shoulder, stepping out of the shadow of one of the colourful tents that mushroomed along the sides of the broad street.

The commotion drew the attention of several vendors and patrons, though they quickly lost interest and went back to business when they discerned that there was nothing more taking place at hand than a friendly jest between two Jedi. There were places in the galaxy, especially on planets in the Outer Rim, where a Jedi was a sight rare enough to warrant a fascinated crowd trailing after one’s every step. Here in the Temple District where hundreds of Jedi passed through on a daily basis on their way to getting transport to their designated mission location, the population was significantly more jaded and paid them no mind. It suited Qui-Gon, who much preferred to blend in with the local populace than be put on a pedestal and gawked at as if he was some prized farthier.

“How about this, my young padawan? Tell me _one_ thing you’ve learnt from Master Tuili’s horticulture class,” he suggested.

Obi-Wan delivered him a look of abject horror, as if he had been playing truant all this while and hadn’t heard a single word of the lecture. It was a pretty good act, too. Qui-Gon would have actually thought he’d caught the young man slacking in class for once if it wasn’t for the sore lack of corroborating purple in Obi-Wan’s Force presence.

“It’s my day off!” cried Obi-Wan with great indignation.

“Is that so? Lucky you. No one seemed to have thought to give _me_  a day off from my irritating shadow,” Qui-Gon commented dryly. “You know the one? A good head shorter than me, horrible hair cut, incorrigible fellow…”

“Your point is duly noted, master,” said Obi-Wan. He harrumphed and clasped his hands behind his back, holding his head high. “Did you know, that the pollen from the flower of the ixitl plant, when consumed, can help one appear invisible droids?”

Qui-Gon laughed at the poor impersonation of the elderly horticulturist. “But?” he asked, because if memory serves, that was exactly how Master Tuili’s classes went. There was _always_  a but.

“But the effect only lasts for half an hour and it disrupts one’s connection to the Force for as long as its effect is in place, thereby doubling as a Force inhibitor,” recited Obi-Wan. He dropped the act. “Also, the knowledge is moot because the plant is believed to have been harvested to extinction by bounty hunters wishing to prey upon Jedi centuries ago. It’s quite the fastidious plant, really. Only grows in marshlands with a very specific amount of silt and minerals, so it rarely lives to a hundred years to bloom.”

“So what’s the moral of the story?” asked Qui-Gon. He shot a sideway glance at a stand with rows of potted plants on display. A pot of desert sage sat on the edge of the rack, about the same size as the one that he’d lost. Qui-Gon drew his attention away. It would not be fair to the plant if his intention for adopting it was to use it as a replacement.

“Resilience to harsh treatment while growing up is the key to survival?” The dimple deepened.

Qui-Gon reached up and rested his arm on top of Obi-Wan’s head, leaning heavily onto him. “Strange. I could have sworn I’ve been feeling more tired than usual for the past twelve years or so. Do you think I could have contracted a parasite somewhere on Bandomeer? I really shouldn’t have visited AgriCorps there. Leave the parasites to the farmers — they’re infinitely better at handling those.”

“You’re always picking up strays everywhere, master. One additional parasite won’t hurt,” countered Obi-Wan, reaching up to dislodge his master’s arm. He didn’t try too hard, and Qui-Gon continued to use his head as armrest.

“Oh, but my strays are a polite lot that are rather vocal in expressing their boundless gratitude. This parasite, on the other hand, is a rather ungrateful piece of work…”

“My, my. If it’s not the maverick and his budding rapscallion,” said a familiar voice.

Master and padawan turned as one to regard the speaker. Obi-Wan took advantage of the distraction to duck out from under Qui-Gon’s arm and reached up to comb through his short turf with his fingers.

“Clee,” Qui-Gon said simply by way of greeting. He folded his arms, hands tucked into opposite sleeves and regarded the speaker with a mock animosity that counted as playful banter among childhood friends.

Beside him, Obi-Wan gave a deep Anchoroni bow and greeted her with exaggerated reverence. “Master Rhara.”

Jedi Master Clee Rhara gifted the young man his second swat of the day, muttering, “incorrigible sycophant” under her breath before turning her attention to Qui-Gon. Over the years, her fiery orange hair had soften into streaks of pale orange and silver, though amid the sea of crow’s feet etched into her skin, her eyes remained the same bright orange that glinted with mischief.

“I only endeavour to honour my master’s teachings, Master Rhara,” Obi-Wan intoned, dimples shining.

Qui-Gon unfolded his hands long enough to make a flicking gesture in his direction to indicate that he had nothing to do with the young man beside him.

“I see now where Garen got his charms from if he spent his childhood mixed up with the likes of you,” Clee commented dryly.

“My humble apologies, Master Rhara, but it seems to me that you tripped over the fine line between causation and correlation,” said Obi-Wan solemnly.

“It’s a tangle of mess, to be sure,” Qui-Gon agreed. “Rest be assured that _this_  —” he drew small circles in the air in Obi-Wan’s direction to indicate all of him, “— is not caused by _this_.” He turned his hand inward to direct his fingers towards himself and drew it up and down horizontally.

Obi-Wan shot him a look of betrayal. Qui-Gon responded with an air of nonchalance. Clee’s eye roll was sufficient to flatten the skyline of Coruscant.

“Force, the you two are insufferable. Pray tell who’s be the poor sod the Council decided to unleash the pair of you on this time?”

“The fish of Abregado-taki,” Obi-Wan deadpanned.

A pause.

“Ah.”

Another pause.

“Abregado- _taki_?” Orange eyes darted between the pair of them, scanning their outfit and gear. “I take it that since you have lost none of your body parts to frostbite, you haven’t been yet.”

Qui-Gon ticked an eyebrow. Trust the pilot to be intimately familiar with all the suns, planets and moons in orbit without needing to consult the astrochart.

“You won’t be able to find transportation there,” she said matter-of-factly. “No amount of Republic credit can convince a sane pilot to risk that Force-forsaken place.”

“A fact that we’ve been made painfully aware of all morning,” Qui-Gon acquiesced. He paused, gauging the glint in Clee’s eyes, calculating if she was worth the risk. Memory of his conversation with Yoda in the Room of a Thousand Fountains resurfaced, reminding him that this was more than a mere trip for relaxation’s sake. “You have a solution.”

Clee’s answering smile was as sharp as a rancor’s teeth.

“No,” came the reply. “I have a _problem_. _You_ , are my solution.”

Qui-Gon exchanged glances with Obi-Wan.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Obi-Wan sighed.

“Nonsense,” Clee scoffed with obvious glee.

 

* * *

 

One comm message and thirty-two standard minutes later, they found themselves in a bustling hangar. Workers hurried back and forth the space, performing all manner of tasks from performing repairs on docked starships to refuelling to obtaining copies of landing permit for filing purposes. Their conversation rose and ebbed in undulating waves in time with the clink of metallic tools, giving the ambience a general sense of harmony despite the busy outward appearance. This was all routine to them, the work that they do perceived to be mundane and lacking stimulation, challenging only by virtue of its sheer volume.

The subject of their searching eyes was one tan-skinned human male dressed in the same orange unisuit that everyone within vicinity was wearing, though he shone like a beacon with his awful low-maintenance padawan haircut and the braid that was coiled around his neck like a noose, presumably to keep it out of the way of machine oil and grease.

“Garen!” Obi-Wan called, raising one arm in a wave to hail his friend’s attention as he jogged the final stretch of distance to meet his old friend.

Garen Muln looked up and waved back, easily isolating the only two anomalies dressed in brown Jedi robes.

“Obi-Wan, long time no see! What have you been up to, you slimy, slithery, snaky son of a Kow—”

Qui-Gon stepped forward and cleared his throat pointedly, forestalling what he had no doubt was to be a masterful display of extravagant diction learnt from the various localities while piloting his way across the galaxy. That flight crews were the most knowledgeable when it came to creative ways to express their affection to each other was uncontested throughout the known worlds.

Garen broke off mid-sentence. Recognition registered on his face even before his eyes darted over his childhood friend’s shoulder to regard the Jedi Master. A look of horror at his near-miss flitted across his eyes before he managed to conceal it behind a hasty smile and an awkward bow. His ears burned a bright red, testament to his youth. A veteran such as Clee Rhara would no doubt bludgeon her way through with no apology, but then Clee Rhara had been brash since she was a crècheling.

“Master Qui-Gon,” he said politely, only just managing to keep a stutter out of his voice.

“Garen.” Qui-Gon inclined his head at the young man in response to his greeting. “Congratulations on a mission well-done. I heard from Clee that you played a vital role in the success of your latest mission.”

Garen hung his head low and scratched the back of his head, feeling awkward to be on the receiving end of a praise from a Jedi Master.

“It was nothing,” he said dismissively, though Qui-Gon could tell how much his words had boosted the young man’s spirits. Suddenly, just as abruptly as his awkwardness had come on, he straightened and immediately became business-like. “So, I heard you’re in need of a starship.” His posture spoke of confidence born of knowledge and experience. He was a pilot training under the best pilot the Order had ever had and the topic of spacecrafts was well within his realm of expertise.

“We do,” said Qui-Gon.

Garen nodded. “I have just the one you need. Here, follow me.”

Qui-Gon contented himself to follow from a ways off behind, allowing the two to catch up with one another. Already, the days they could meet each other were becoming few and far in between. After being Knighted, meeting would be nigh impossible. Case in point, while he and Tahl were best friends as Initiates, he could count with his fingers the number of times they met between the time of Qui-Gon's knighting and the incident on Melida/Daan. If they met each other more after, it was because the number of off-planet missions Tahl had been assigned to reduced significantly after she became blind. He observed the two animated young men in front of him bantering and bickering over everything and nothing not unlike two crèchelings. Briefly, he wondered if they ever felt lonely being so far apart from faces they knew. Then again, he knew from experience that the bond of camaraderie formed between two Jedi would more than withstand the trials of time.

It has to, if duty send you scuttling from one end of the galaxy to the other with no time to form new bonds, said a small voice at the back of his head.

Qui-Gon paused momentarily to register the discontentment that had popped up unbidden. It felt terribly out of place. Had he been secretly harbouring this thought all these years without realising it? He turned the thought over in his mind, inspecting it momentarily the way a trader inspected a piece of gold coin before tucking it away to be explored closer in detail later.

 

* * *

 

“Let me present to you, _Kiros_ ,” said Garen proudly, standing at the hangar in front of a shuttle that looked large enough to hold four, maybe five passengers, fists planted on his hips. “I got to name her myself. Granted, she’s seen better days, but I must assure you that she’s perfectly space-worthy.”

Obi-Wan looked openly sceptical while Qui-Gon maintained a diplomatic air of neutrality. The shuttle didn’t look like it had seen better days. It looked like it was an assemblage of unwanted scraps salvaged from the junkyard welded together by a child. Somebody had given the spacecraft a shoddy paint job — or rather, someone had decided to throw together whatever leftover paint they had from painting other starships and peppered it with splashes of purple and green. No doubt the colour, combined with the size of the craft, had assisted the Jedi pilot in choosing the moniker.

“Come, let me show you,” said Garen, either oblivious to the doubt emanating off his companions in waves or too used to it to let it affect him. Qui-Gon wasn’t sure which was more reassuring.

The exterior of the cruiser proved to be deceptive because once inside, it was clear that three passengers was the most the ship could comfortably hold at any one time without anyone getting terribly claustrophobic. Garen settled comfortably into the pilot seat while Obi-Wan perched hesitantly on the co-pilot seat. Qui-Gon contented himself with watching from outside the cockpit, hunching over so that his head did not hit the top of the craft.

“We’ve fitted this darling with a hyperdrive and deflector shields,” said Garen proudly, indicating to Obi-Wan the switches for both and going over the controls on the console. Everyone on board knew that everyone had received basic training in flying and were perfectly capable of piloting anything from land-bound speeders to inter-galactic freighters to lethal starfighters, but they also knew the importance of safety protocols. Pride had no place in piloting a spacecraft. If Garen, the specialist in piloting were to be handed a new spacecraft, he would be receiving this same briefing in controls himself. “And we even have a 300 terrawatt laser canon stowed away under the starboard wing here.”

“Starboard?” Obi-Wan meant to repeat it for confirmation, but his exasperation had leaked through, sending his voice spiralling a full octave higher than normal towards the end and making the statement sound like a question.

“Co-pilot seat,” Garen said without skipping a beat. “Can’t depend on the pilot to both fly and shoot while under fire. You try to do both while under fire, you end up missing your target _and_  crashing the ship.” He tapped the controls for the deflector shields. “You get into trouble when you’re alone, evasive flying is your best bet.” One of the buttons popped out, exposing the delicate sensors and wires beneath. Garen stooped to fish the button out from under his seat and popped it back on. “Whoops. That one does that fairly often. Don’t worry though. It’s still perfectly functional.”

Obi-Wan looked like he was beginning to have misgivings about taking a break away from plants.

“Remind me again how you came across this —” Obi-Wan looked like he wanted very much to exercise the arsenal of colourful speech he had acquired on the side while on mission with his master. Garen expertly cocked one eyebrow at him and threw his gaze not-so-subtly at the figure towering behind the both of them just outside the cockpit, daring Obi-Wan to finish his sentence. Obi-Wan trailed off and gulped, swallowing the word that was poised on the tip of his tongue. He casted a bashful look at Qui-Gon and chewed the inside of his cheek, ransacking his brain for something more appropriate for polite company. “— thing,” Obi-Wan finished lamely.

It was a shallow victory, but a victory all the same, and Garen’s eyes twinkled with smug satisfaction. Obi-Wan scowled. No doubt the two would engage in a wrestling match and wring each other’s necks out once they were free from Qui-Gon’s oppressive presence. Qui-Gon forced himself to maintain a straight face throughout the exchange. _Boys will be boys_ , he thought with fond exasperation.

Then again, these were boys one Trial away to becoming full-fledged Jedi Knights. There really was little reason for him to be patronising or for them to be cowed by him.

“What my padawan really meant to say but doesn’t have the eloquence that comes with age to say,” said Qui-Gon, “Is ‘Where in the kriffing nine hells did you attain this _shabuir_?’”

Garen’s eyes looked ready to pop right off his orbits. Even Obi-Wan was shocked speechless. Qui-Gon placed one hand on his padawan's shoulder. “Here’s a lesson for you, Garen. Never pitch a man against his own ally. They might team up to bite you where the sun does not shine. Also,” he continued with a look of mock displeasure, “Don’t think I’d forgiven you for nearly calling me a Kowakian monkey-lizard.”

Garen’s jaws fell all the way to the ground. Qui-Gon felt a surge of shock racing across his bond with Obi-Wan as his mind caught up with the implications of his words, followed by a tide of conflicted emotion that flooded their bond.

“That’s really not the most original of swear words, you know. Surely Clee has a better collection in her arsenal of expressive lexicon. Worry not, you’ll learn yet.” With that, Qui-Gon turned around with an air of finality, signalling the end of the conversation. “Let’s have a look at what we have back here.”

Behind him, the two youths remained stuck on their seats in shock.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, the _Kiros_  was indeed as space-worthy as her maker had guaranteed, though their uneventful flight there turned out to be the last agenda of the day that went according to plan.

For starters, the planet was quite literally covered in snow, and the raging blizzard made navigating through the planet’s atmosphere an advanced lesson in evasive flying. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the landscape of the ground was covered in uneven outcrops of rocks interspersed with stretches of treacherous snow that ran miles deep and was by no means strong enough to support a shuttle. For finishers, the planet was, as Qui-Gon had suspected, completely devoid of any life.

“Remind me what we were here to do again!” shouted Obi-Wan over the howling wind.

Qui-Gon waved one hand dramatically at the dismal monochromatic landscape before them and intoned solemnly, “Fishing.”

Too preoccupied with staying alive to take either his eyes away from their surroundings or his brains away from navigation, Obi-Wan settled with directing an incredulous look at the windscreen.


	5. Droid Problem (Obi-Wan)

The entire ordeal had started out well enough. After being turned down by a handful of pilots, the master-padawan duo had found success in the form of the former’s childhood friend, Clee Rhara, who had immediately volunteered her own shuttlecraft, _Kiros_ , for use as soon as she heard that they were in need of transport. For all that _Kiros_  looked like it was made of scraps salvaged from a junkyard and melded together by a child with more enthusiasm than actual knowledge, it was completely space-worthy as promised and made the journey there without a hitch. Things began to go wrong as soon as they hit atmo and found themselves plunged right into the centre of a raging blizzard.

Obi-Wan immediately launched into a series of evasive manoeuvres, hearkening to subtle promptings in the Force to lead the craft into a dizzying array of ducking, diving and spinning in a frenzied dance with the vagaries of Abengado weather. At length, the shuttle half-landed, half-crashed into a patch of flatland — the _only_  visible patch of flatland for several klicks — only for the craft to tilt over at the last minute to bury its streamlined nose and one wing into the snowy landscape. The deafening sound of durasteel crunching against coarse snow momentarily drowned out the incessant howling of the planet’s aggrieved nature. Obi-Wan winced. Already, he could hear the sardonic reproach awaiting him on Coruscant in the voice of one Garen Muln.

“Well, that was most salutary,” commented Obi-Wan dryly.

“It most certainly is,” Qui-Gon agreed. He eyed the still-raging blizzard critically. “I suggest we wait out this storm before moving forwards.”

Obi-Wan grinned. Slipping a hand into the sleeves of his tunic, he withdrew a deck of sabacc cards.

“I know just the thing to do.”

Qui-Gon had the nerve to put on a show of being shocked.

“This is heresy,” said Qui-Gon, even as he accepted the deck and began to expertly deal the deck, fingers working deftly over the flimsi cards.

“Surely you meant to say, _heritage_? It rhymes better with our lineage.”

Qui-Gon laughed.

 

* * *

 

Commonly regarded as the mother of all gambling vices, the game of sabacc was frowned heavily upon across countless sectors and star systems, so much so that being found in possession of a deck on one’s person would immediately put the integrity of said person in question. The Jedi Order, being the keepers of peace and justice of the Galactic Republic, would not deign to sully their stellar reputation thus and forbade all manner of gambling within the Temple. It took a thousand years, one maverick Jedi and a rendezvous point with an old friend at an underground casino some one thousand and three-hundred odd levels below Coruscant’s surface for the first sabacc deck to make its debut within the sacred place. It had become quickly apparent that forbidden or not, most Jedi are more than familiar with the game. If Mace Windu had anything to say against it, he could hardly speak out against his own former master who had taken to playing a game of sabacc with said maverick over tea. So Mace kept his peace, and Qui-Gon kept his deck.

When he first became Qui-Gon’s padawan, a prudish Obi-Wan had been scandalised to find out that more than being a master of the Living Force, Qui-Gon was a master of sabacc to rival some of the best gamblers in the galaxy.

“There is much to be learnt from a game of sabacc,” Qui-Gon had told his scandalised padawan of barely six months while dealing out the cards. “You learn to gauge how your opponents react to adversity and stress, how well they lie, how well they handle success and failure.”

Their master-padawan relationship was too new for Obi-Wan to dare challenge his master, so he grudgingly took his cards and scowled at his cards — _hand_  — trying to recall the rules of the game. It was proving to be more daunting than his exam on Force Theory. He drew a card from the deck and frowned.

Opposite him, Qui-Gon chuckled. “And you learn to school your own expression, too.” Qui-Gon pointed a finger at his padawan. “All pip cards, a Flask, a Coin, a Stave, no more than twenty points total.”

Startled, Obi-Wan had tilted his cards towards himself to study the back of the cards, wondering if they were somehow marked.

“It’s simple. In the previous rounds, you have proved yourself to be a fan of the suit of Sabers and despise pip cards. You get excited when you receive a special card, and you grin when you see the Commander, Mistress or Master of any suit. That tells me that you have a hand of all pip cards with nothing from the suit of Sabers.”

“Doesn’t explain how you know they’re all from different suits or the total,” Obi-Wan griped, placing his cards down, face up. Three of Cups, Five of Staves and Eleven of Coins stared at them.

“You had this hopeful look in your eyes when you move on to the next card, followed by a flash of disappointment when you recognise it. It tells me that your next card was of a different suit from your previous one. If you had bombed your hand, you would have looked devastated; if you have a perfect Sabacc of twenty-three, you would have been elated; anything from twenty-points and above, you would have worn a deeper frown than you did moments ago,” said Qui-Gon. “Also,” Qui-Gon gathered the abandoned cards and replaced them in Obi-Wan’s hands. “You don’t give up just because you’ve been dealt a bad hand. Sometimes, how you play your bluff can be as important as what cards you actually own, if not more so.”

“I don’t get the point of this game,” Obi-Wan finally huffed. “How does learning sabacc make me a better Jedi?”

Qui-Gon smiled. “Because, my young padawan, politics is nothing if not a game of high-stakes sabacc, and like it or not, we get embroiled in politics more often than not. You need to learn how to get out of it if you want to be a Jedi.”

 

* * *

 

Back at present, Obi-Wan found himself studying his hand with a carefully impassive face. They had been playing for over three hours now. Some time in the middle of the game, the blizzard had stopped, though the two had remained inside the ship in an unspoken agreement to complete the game first.

Opposite him, Qui-Gon looked _Qui-Gon_ , which was to say, he looked less like a man who had just betted a year’s worth of cleaning duty for the knowledge of Obi-Wan’s favourite Mandalorian dish, and more like a master having a casual chat with his padawan over tea. On flimsi, it sounded like Obi-Wan had little to lose and everything to gain. In practise, Obi-Wan knew Qui-Gon would extrapolate from that morsel of information to his connection (or rather, his insistence of a lack thereof) to the Mandaloreian duchess, Satine Kryze. Even though it’s been almost a year ago, Obi-Wan was decidedly not interested in having _the_  talk with his master. Subtle as Qui-Gon was wont to be, the conversation was bound to be a one-sided interrogation with no room for cover.

“So tell me, what was it about Satine that you found the most alluring? Her well-endowed anterior or her fleshed-out posterior?”

If Obi-Wan wasn’t already wearing his best sabacc face, he would be choking on shock. So much for subtle interrogation. Obi-Wan shot Qui-Gon a calculated look of righteous indignation because that was the only thing he deserved. Qui-Gon of all people should know that Obi-Wan wasn’t the type who cared for looks.

“What is this? _Disrupting_  my concentration with small talk, _demoralising_  me by hinting that I have an affinity for such basal things, _distracting_  me by bringing up Mandalore. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that you were going for devastation,” Obi-Wan countered. It was a low blow, considering that it inevitably dredged up memories of Qui-Gon’s former padawan, Xanatos, who had fallen to the dark side but Obi-Wan didn’t care. Serves Qui-Gon right for sticking his nose into places that doesn’t concern him.

He drew a card from the deck and peeked at it. The Evil One grinned deviously back at him. He glanced up in time to see Qui-Gon recovering from a flinch. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if it was an honest flinch or a double cover.

“Oh, I hardly need to do that. You brought devastation upon yourself by lying to me,” Qui-Gon rebutted. He drew a card from the deck and, without once taking his eyes off Obi-Wan’s face, traded it for another from the deck. His eyes softened. “Being flawed does not make you any less worthy of being a Jedi, Obi-Wan, and keeping secrets in your heart will only allow the wound to fester.”

Obi-Wan ignored him. “Twenty-three,” he called, proudly displaying his hand.

Qui-Gon stared at Obi-Wan’s hand for a moment before setting his own down. The Idiot, Two of Sabers and Three of Coins looked up at the players innocently. Obi-Wan glared first at the Idiot’s Array, then at his master, certain that the man had cheated in some way but was unable to call him out on it because he was uncertain of the exact mechanism by which he cheated.

“Your favourite dish?” Qui-Gon prompted.

For a moment, Obi-Wan felt a strong urge to lie, and serve his master right too, for cheating. Then, he gathered his wits around him and reconsidered his decision. His master was right — instead of letting go of his love for Satine to the Force, he had swept it inside a closet and pretended that it didn’t exist, allowing it to fester.

Obi-Wan drew a deep breath, held it, and let it go, watching it condense in the air before him.

“Bilerat stew,” he replied, smiling nostalgically. The Mandalorian stew kept for a long time and had been a staple during his year-long stint living on the run on the planet. He recalled sharing the stew with Satine, commiserating over how absolutely _foul_  it tasted. By the end, Obi-Wan found that he had developed quite a taste for it.

“Do you remember what it tastes like?”

Obi-Wan gave Qui-Gon his most unimpressed look.

“Of course,” he scoffed. How could he forget?

“What did it taste like?” Qui-Gon prompted.

Obi-Wan cocked his head and regarded Qui-Gon curiously. Why should he describe the taste of a food to his master who had partook in the meal as often as he did? He turned his mind inward and dredged up memories of the stew, remembering the way it melted in his mouth. It tasted-

“Absolutely foul,” said Obi-Wan.

“What do you like about it?”

Obi-Wan thought about it. “It’s practical. We can keep it for long periods while on the move, and as bad as it tastes, it’s perfectly nourishing. Certainly beats ration bars.”

“What do you dislike about it?”

“It looks awful and tastes worse.”

Qui-Gon snorted softly. “Understatement of the century if I’ve ever heard one.”

They sat together in silence for a little while longer, Qui-Gon waiting patiently while Obi-Wan mulled over the point of the entire exercise. He jabbed experimentally at the sore spot that was now red, inflamed, incredibly tender to touch and not a little hard. Master Vokara Che would call it an abscess, pus sealed up in a protective thick-walled cyst to keep the infection from spreading. Self-preservation demanded that Obi-Wan left it alone, sealed away for eternity. Then again, it could be a nidus for more infection if left unattended to.

Obi-Wan sighed and grabbed the proverbial scalpel.

“Satine Kryze,” said Obi-Wan, incising the abscess and began the arduous process of draining the pus. Qui-Gon said nothing, allowing him to work on his wound with full concentration. “She’s smart and witty, kind, caring, brave, unafraid of standing up to controversy to uphold her believes...” The list goes on forever. How could he ever summarise to Qui-Gon what he loved about Satine? It was the conspiratorial smile she gave him before they launched into a joint verbal spar with the clan leaders, herding them into the exact corner they wanted them to be; it was the musical lilt in her laugh when she caught on to his sarcastic humour that few ever learnt to appreciate; it was the vulnerable look in her eyes that she only allowed him to see during the dark of the night while they were living on the run, living hand-to-mouth each day. There were a hundred, thousand nuances to the girl that was Satine Kryze and too few words to described her.

Over a year later, it still hurt to think of her, to think of what might have been if he wasn’t sworn to a life of celibacy in the Jedi Order. Would they have gotten into a serious relationship together? Married and started a family together? They still kept in touch, if it could even be called that. During events like the new year on Coruscant or Obi-Wan’s birthday, Satine would send him a word of greeting. It was a trite thing, simple words shared between associates to remain in touch without getting too personal. As the duchess, she probably had an assistant send these things to the list of contacts she deemed important enough to keep in touch with. Nevertheless, every time Satine sent him a message using her private communications channel, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but feel a foolish spark of hope rekindle in his heart. Alone at night, he would lay on his bunk and stare at the pixellated words scrawled across the screen of his datapad and agonise over a response. What should he say? Thank you? Wish her well in return? Ask after her? Would she reply if he did, or would she think him an annoying pest that wouldn’t leave well enough alone? What if he had told her of his feelings? Would she have accepted him, or refused him for the foolish romantic idealist that he was? When they were together, Satine had given very strong suggestions that she was as into him as he was to her, yet they never got past being close associates. Was this love that he felt for her, or merely infatuation? Did she feel the same about him? Confusion clouded him, and not knowing if Satine meant anything more behind each message sent hurt worse than if she had just clean cut off all communications with him. Every time his datapad pinged, he found himself holding his breath, wondering if it was Satine. He knew he shouldn’t indulge in his fantasies, yet his foolish heart did not seem to have received the memo and continued to long after an impossible dream. How many times had he cried over this agony that haunted his every waking hour? Obi-Wan had learnt to carry on as usual, pretending like nothing was amiss, but he could feel himself becoming sloppy with his work. He was not as attentive to his duties as he should have been, and Qui-Gon had been picking up after him silently all the time, being patient with him.

There was a long pause as Obi-Wan struggled to think of what he disliked about Satine. He mopped up the balance of the pus mixed with blood and flinched. “She’s stubborn,” Obi-Wan conceded at last. A longer pause as he mentally braced himself. He yanked the capsule of the abscess out. It hurt so bad, the wound throbbing as blood poured out in torrents. “She refuses to see things in other people’s point of view, unwilling to compromise in her ways to match the believes of others while expecting others to compromise to match hers.”

Qui-Gon hummed, the deep vibration of his voice a soothing balm. “But her flaws doesn’t overshadow her strengths, and you love her all the more for it, don’t you?”

Obi-Wan turned away, unable to face his master’s accusation. _Attachment_.

“Obi-Wan, I’m hardly one to lecture about why attachments are forbidden. You know that.”

And the problem was, he did.

“Tahl,” he said, before he could think better of it. He flinched immediately and attempted to backtrack. “I’m sorry. I me…”

Qui-Gon waved a hand. “No. You’re not wrong. I loved Tahl. I allowed myself to be attached to her, and when she died, I nearly fell. But ultimately, it was my attachment to you that kept me going. Attachments are forbidden because if you hold on so tightly that you fear letting go when the situation calls for it, they are a source of weakness, but it’s important to realise that they can be a source of strength as well.”

Fear leads to anger, anger to hate, hate to pain and suffering. It was something the crèche masters repeated times enough that no one Jedi hasn’t heard of it.

Obi-Wan thought about it. So was his attachment to Satine a strength or a weakness? He thought of her dream to promote peace by denouncing violence and his role of protecting peace by aggressive negotiations if necessary. She had been unhappy with the fact of his lightsaber that was his only possession and his life, and wanted him to be rid of it. She never brought it up again after their heated argument over it, but Obi-Wan could feel the tension mounting between them whenever he drew it to defend her. If they were to be together, either one of them had to give up on their ideals. Obi-Wan was nothing if not Jedi and Satine was a pacifist to the core.

He turned his attention back to the Jedi Order.

“Bant Eerin,” he said. “Garen Muln. Reeft.” The list went on. Softly, he added, “Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened a fraction. Master and padawan locked eyes. The comforting buzz that resonated along their training bond was bacta for his now cleaned but still smarting wound. Obi-Wan smiled sadly. This wasn’t to be the end of his pain, he knew, but it was a first step towards healing, and that had to count for something.

 

* * *

 

Their forage out of the relative safety of the claustrophobic shuttle was carried out in silence, each of them gauging the Force of the planet in their own turn. Being free from the constraint of view from the cockpit did little to improve the constituency of the Force-forsaken landscape.

Obi-Wan squinted into the horizon, eyes hurting from the glare reflecting off the snow. Everywhere he looked, it was rocks, snow, snow and more snow. If they were playing at being at ecologists here, then the mission was proving to be harder than what either man expected. Objectively, he knew that an absence of lifeforms aboveground did not preclude the presence of a thriving community underground. Nevertheless,

“I still think we’re better off staying put in the shuttle, master. We could call this a retreat exercise away from the hustle bustle of Coruscant,” said Obi-Wan.

“Let’s not give up so easily shall we?”

Obi-Wan hated it when Qui-Gon phrased things in such a way to use his own ego against him. The problem was that how kriffing effective it was.

Harnessing the tracking skills taught him by Qui-Gon, he worked with his master to scan their surroundings for any signs of habitation, moving outwards from their shuttle in a gradually expanding circle. Deep in his heart, Obi-Wan despaired that it was a futile mission. Even if there were any living beings on the planet, whatever tracks they left would have been covered by the blizzard earlier. He shook the pessimistic thought from his head. No. That just meant he needed to learn to look harder.

Suddenly, Obi-Wan felt his boot connect with a surface that felt different from the rest. He took a step back and bent his neck to survey the ground. Using the tip of his boot, he lightly pushed the snow off the surface and found a grey-tinged reflection of himself staring back at him. Ice.

“Here's a lake,” Obi-Wan ventured hopefully.

Qui-Gon didn't even spare it a glance.

“There's nothing in there,” his master declared in the deep baritone of his that held the weight of the entire planet.

Asking how his master knew with such conviction was to provide ammunition for the blaster aimed at his own deficiency in the Living Force, so Obi-Wan wisely held his tongue.

“Yoda sent us here. There must be a good reason for this,” Qui-Gon murmured, blue-grey eyes scanning the landscape before him in quiet contemplation.

Obi-Wan resisted the temptation to allow his eyebrow to commune with his hairline. Master Yoda sent them here? That was news to him.

His master turned back to look at Obi-Wan, a questioning look in his eyes. The padawan realised with a start that his master had been awaiting his input on the matter, choosing to defer judgement to the one between them who had a closer connection with the Unifying Force. It was meant to be affirming to be treated as an equal by one's own master, but it only left Obi-Wan to flounder in the depths of the lake that was his own insufficiency because he had not the faintest clue. He swallowed the lump in his throat to buy time. If Qui-Gon sensed his panic, the older man made no comment of it, choosing to wait in silence for the younger man to speak his mind. Not for the first time, Obi-Wan wished that his master was a more verbal man.

A quiet voice deep within the recesses of Obi-Wan's mind whispered, _because he doesn't have a clue either_.

Obi-Wan found purchase on solid ground beneath his feet and picked himself up, embarrassed to bear witness to the massive splash he had caused in the puddle. Drawing a deep breath to still his racing heart, he gathered his self-doubts, worries and shame and released them into the Force, allowing tranquility to ground him to the matter at hand.

What would Master Yoda say in this situation?

“Let us meditate on this.”

Obi-Wan could have sworn those words sounded a hundred times wiser in his head.

A roguish grin split the serene mask of his master's face. Qui-Gon chuckled.

“Yes, but surely not out here, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan smiled sheepishly, realising that he had once again lost sight of the here and now.

“No, that would not do at all, master,” he conceded.

He gathered his cloak around himself and turned around. Something caught his attention from out of the corner of his eye and he turned around to take a better look. Kilometres after kilometres of dismal snow in varying shades of pale grey filled his visual field. Fresh snow enthusiastically layered themselves upon the one already on the ground, though they contributed little by way of giving the landscape a new look. Next to him, Qui-Gon had picked up on the unspoken cue and was scanning the landscape as well, eyes squinted to protect them from the reflective glare of the snow.

“Could be my ima-” Obi-Wan began when he saw it again. “There,” he said, pointing out the spot where he had seen a red light flashing mere seconds ago.

Qui-Gon turned to look. This time, when light flashed again, Qui-Gon saw it too. They exchanged glances.

“Let's find out.”

 

* * *

 

No matter how many times he did it, Obi-Wan could never get used to walking on snow. Instead of sliding easily against one another under his boots the way fine sand does, the substance crunched loudly and roughly, yet if you allowed it to lure you into a false sense of security, you would find your feet slipping out beneath you and your gluteus drawn to the ground like iron filing to a magnet. Treacherous doesn't even begin to describe it. Combine that with a nearly vertical uphill ascent with minimal handholds, the cliff was decidedly impossible to navigate for the human species. Fortunately, the two were Jedi and had considerable external help by way of their standard issue survival pack, which came handily with a grapple hook launcher. The Force was momentarily relayed to the sidelines as cheerleader, helpfully encouraging them on. Thus motivated, Obi-Wan clung onto the liquid-cable clumsily with gloved hands and ascended cautiously, taking his time to navigate the cliff.

Once at the top, Obi-Wan busied himself with dusting off the snow from his clothes before they got wet from melted snow while his master casually shook out his fur-lined cloak with nary a flick of his wrists. Instantly, the snow clinging onto the fur fell off cleanly, settling around his feet in a neat circle. Obi-Wan glanced down at his own where the snow had lodged even more firmly into the crevasses of the fur of his cloak no thanks to his dusting and huffed softly. Befriender of vagrants and miscreants and collector of pathetic lifeforms as he was, every now and then Qui-Gon would display such refined acts that befitted aristocracy. Not for the first time, Obi-Wan wondered at which point in his master’s life did the man learn such refined etiquettes.

That, however, was a question for another time. For now, he turned his attention to his surroundings. They were standing on a narrow ledge protruding out from the surface of the cliff beside a wall of ice. Somewhere behind the ice, the red light flashed.

“Must be a cavern in there,” he thought out loud. Across their training bond, Qui-Gon hummed in agreement.

Obi-Wan took a step back to take a better look and felt more than heard a soft click under the heel of his left boot. A flare of warning surged in the Force.

“Master, look out!” he shouted, lunging forward to push Qui-Gon out of the way even as the snow wall beside them exploded in a massive blast. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw battle droids marching out of cavern that was left from the explosion.

The two Jedi sprang into action at once, lightsabers drawn just in time to deflect the oncoming wave of blaster shots. The narrow ledge combined with the slippery surface of the snow restricted their movements greatly, not the best setup for Ataru which relied on a combination of Force-assisted acrobatics and aggressive offence. Obi-Wan felt a surge of annoyance at himself for not spending more time to brush up on his Soresu, which was taught to him as an Initiate but was since relaid to the sidelines in favour of Ataru. Nevertheless, working in tandem with his master, they were able to dispatch the five droids, though not before a blaster shot slipped past Obi-Wan’s defences and grazed his left arm. Qui-Gon sliced the offending droid into half and moved to deflect the next wave of shots. Obi-Wan recovered almost at once and reentered the fray, lightsaber flashing.

“Now would be an excellent time to have an ixitl flower!” he shouted to his master.

“You would rather be invisible to these droids than have the Force?” Qui-Gon shouted back, his words saturated with incredulity. He was spinning his lightsaber so fast that it was a blurry green disk reflecting scarlet blaster fires back at the droids shooting at them.

“Look at it this way, master — if we are invisible, we would not have to fight them at all!” Obi-Wan hacked two droids into halves, pushed the one that was advancing onto him back into the other two behind it and took advantage of the distraction to decapitate all three.

More red lights flared to live as more droids were roused from their previous state of hibernation to join in the meleé. Dimly, Obi-Wan realised with a sinking feeling in his gut that they were badly outnumbered and would need to rely on strategy rather than strength if they were to win this battle. The droids were in the cave, so bringing the roof of the cave down would bury them within rock and snow, incapacitating them, but he dared not risk causing an avalanche so long as he and his master were trapped out on the narrow ledge. If they could get into the cave, then maybe they would have more room to navigate and unleash the full might of Ataru. But if they did, the blaster fire would start ricocheting off the cave walls, potentially causing a crash and trapping them in. Their best hope of success was to descended to safety using their cable launchers while collapsing the cavern above them.

As if reading his mind, Qui-Gon chose that moment to begin pushing forward, parrying and slashing with renewed fervour, forcing the droids back into the cave. Obi-Wan deactivated his lightsaber and returned it to his utility belt. Using the Force, he summoned a fallen droid’s discarded blaster into one hand while his other hand held his grapple hook launcher at the ready. He hoisted the blaster and aimed, opening himself up to the Force to guide him.

“Now!” He shouted.

Qui-Gon shoved the droid in front of him, sending it sprawling backwards into its compatriots. He turned around and lunged for Obi-Wan the same time Obi-Wan fired the blaster.

The sound of rocks crumbling was lost to the two Jedi as they plummeted down the cliff together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter so long ago that I don't even remember what my original plans were for this anymore. I swear this was once meant to be used to tie in with a plot somewhere later on in the fic, but now that I've finally finished the entire first draft for part 1, I realised I didn't actually use anything??? lol. Posting this up anyway because there's no reason to not post it I guess. *shrugs*


	6. Intermission (Obi-Wan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping up this arc. There'll be a short chapter coming up next to kick start the story proper :D

When Obi-Wan returned from the ’fresher, dressed in a dry set of tunic, he found Qui-Gon staring pensively at the consoles in the pilot’s seat. Except for the low, undulating drone of the ship’s engine, the cockpit was heavily shrouded in silence.

“I’ll drive,” said Obi-Wan for want of something to say, settling back into the co-pilot seat as the familiar silver-white planet came into view.

Qui-Gon reclined in his seat — or rather, he leaned back and stretched his long limbs out as far as the cramped space would allow him — and indicated for Obi-Wan to take the helm.

Carefully, Obi-Wan steered the shuttle into the line of traffic waiting to be cleared by Traffic Control, except that his fingers and wrists were still semi-frozen and not as dexterous as he was used to and he ended up overshooting to the right and nearly collided into the spacecraft beside him.

Qui-Gon reached over calmly and steered the ship back on course, safely out of harm’s way. A red indicator light flashed, signalling an incoming comm. It wasn’t the frequency of either Coruscant Air Traffic Control or the Jedi Temple, which could only mean one thing. With great trepidation, Obi-Wan flipped on the comm channel. The loudspeaker discharged a loud blast of static before a string of angry expletives filled the cockpit as the pilot of the other craft berated Obi-Wan for reckless driving, questioning the authenticity of his driving license.

“I apologise, sir,” Obi-Wan began, his strong Core-bred accent becoming pronounced under stress.

This prompted another barrage of slur accusing him of faking an accent. Insults to his person preceded insults to his parents, which then turned into a slew of creative curses Obi-Wan would never have been able to dream of. The enraged outpour came in a constant torrent, offering him no leeway to make a word in edgewise. Distressed, he shot a look at his master. Without so much as batting an eyelash, the Jedi Master reached over and flicked the comm channel close.

“Well, you’ve learnt your lesson,” Qui-Gon remarked dryly to his gaping apprentice. “You offered your apology, but it’s clear our friend isn’t interested in it. Unless you wish to update your repertoire to match up with Garen’s, there’s no point in continuing this conversation.”

Which was true. Still, it made Obi-Wan uncomfortable to think that there was someone out there who was displeased at him.

“Not everyone you meet in life would come as a pleasant experience for you. It is only fair, then, that you won’t be able to please everyone in turn. Don’t mind him, my young padawan. It will profit no one to brood over this kerfuffle.” Qui-Gon straightened in his seat and took over the steering from Obi-Wan and broke off from the queue, heading off in a different direction. “Still, it will not do to let such an incident pass without a lesson learnt. I do believe, my young padawan, that you have learnt your limits and will submit to a thorough checkup in the Halls of Healing without fuss when we get back.”

“Yes, master,” Obi-Wan demurred. He tugged at the neckline of his tunic. Was it him, or was the cockpit suddenly stifling hot?

Qui-Gon had a look on his face that suggested his mind was on elsewhere as he spoke. “You will, also, do a complete right up of the report and submit it to the Council while waiting for our august healer to make time to see you.”

That earned a moment’s pause. Two Jedi going off on a day-long vacation over a weekend was hardly cause for a compte rendu, yet the discovery of the cache of battle droids changed things. Like as not, a full investigation will be launched to investigate the source of the droids and for that purpose, a written report would be required on the records for future reference. Legislature was a pain in the neck and not even Jedi with their flashy mastery of the Force were spared from honouring the tedious obligation of bureaucratic paperwork.

“Yes, master.” Beads of moisture dampened the skin on his forehead. It occurred to him that he had probably overcompensated and set the ship’s thermoregulator too high, and now that he was finally done defrosting, his body’s homeostasis was kicking in to lower the temperature. Coruscant’s atmosphere loomed ahead, the cooling white and silver of the buildings that covered the planet’s surface a stark contrast to the scorching heat in the cockpit. He stood up, thinking of heading out back to adjust the temperature.

“Sit down, Obi-Wan, and whatever you do, do not open the hatch.”

“Yes, mas— Wait, why?” he asked. Even as the words left his mouth, Obi-Wan realised with a sense of dread that he knew exactly why.

Qui-Gon ignored him and instead reopened the ship’s comms channel, long fingers flying over the numeric pad as he dialled in a frequency.

There was a crackle of static and the bored, monotonous voice of an officer spoke. “Cor—”

“Air Traffic, this is Jedi Master Jinn, pilot of Kiros speaking,” said Qui-Gon in a calm, unhurried voice. Only the fact that he’d broken protocol and interrupted the officer gave any indication to the severity of the situation. “I do believe we are in need of an emergency landing. Our ship’s on fire.”

 

* * *

 

Master Clee and Garen were waiting when Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan showed up at the Processional Way. The latter of the former pair bounded up to them merrily like an excited loth cat, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a delighted grin.

“You’re back! How was it? Everything went we—” Garen trailed off when he caught on to the disgruntled look on his friend’s face. “I take the flight didn’t go well?” He looked over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, as if expecting to see the shuttle docked outside the Temple gates and caught the impassive face of one towering Jedi Master instead.

“Actually, the flight was alright. Until we unwittingly overheated the ship’s engines and set it on fire. Young _Kiros_  met a valiant end in the hangar some twenty kliks southwest from here as the thranctill flies,” said Qui-Gon with the air of one commenting on the weather. “Would you care to hazard a guess at the reason for its malfunction?”

Garen flinched. It was rather famously known throughout the Temple that Qui-Gon was the kind of man who got calmer the more upset he was, and right now, he looked like he had just emerged from a rejuvenating meditation from the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Garen was silent for a while, no doubt running through an exhaustive system analysis in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact cause of the malfunction. After a few seconds, he blanched.

“Where did you say you were going again?” he asked.

The trepidation in his voice was as good as an open confession that the malfunction was from an oversight on his part.

Behind him, Master Clee burst out into peals of laughter.

“Oh, Garen, my boy. You forgot to add the coolant, didn’t you? I told you to do it immediately, but no, you had to go and mess around with Quinlan instead!”

Garen’s face looked warm enough to fry eggs on, cementing his guilt.

“So let me get this straight,” said Obi-Wan. “The water in the radiator turned into ice and it burst, so the engine overheated? But we should have been alerted. The thermostat—”

Garen shifted. “I ah… Might have accidentally neglected to install a thermostat?”

Behind Garen, Master Clee laughed even harder. At this rate, it didn’t take a genius to know that he didn’t so much _accidentally_  neglected to install a thermostat as he did argue with Master Clee about its necessity — or more accurately, it’s lack thereof. Somehow, he’d won that argument, and it was just Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s luck that they had to be the ones to help him discover in a very painfully practical demonstration the reason starship builders from centuries past all thought it important to include one.

“What did I tell you, Gar?”

“But Master, the Journal of Space Aviation said that thermostats are redundant for modern day starships because of the construction—”

Qui-Gon cleared his throat, interrupting the squabbling duo, clearly not interested in spending any amount of time standing out in the middle of a yard to witness the crossfire. “Forgive me for the interruption, but if you would like to retrieve the cadaver for autopsy, Air Traffic was kind enough to allow us to dock it at the hangar in Coco District. You have my condolences for the premature demise of your beloved love child, Garen, and as a sign of my utmost apology for not bringing it back in one piece, I have forbidden my charge from — and I quote — relieving you of your hide in lieu of submitting an overdue request for a new pair of apparel for his esteemed lower extremities, unless, of course, you would like to claim compensation for any perceived grievances in the form of _his_  hide, in which case I would suggest that you two duel it out in the salles, and may the Force bless the righteous and all that.”

A group of junior padawans returning from their day out in the Temple district casted the group stalling in the middle of the Processional Way curious looks, though they quickly found interest elsewhere upon sensing the raging turbulence in the Force and hurried along, wise enough to steer clear of any situation involving not one but two livid Jedi Masters.

“Your magnanimity is most appreciated, Qui-Gon, but rest be assured that it won’t be necessary for Obi-Wan to sully his hands. I will personally see to it that this nerf-herder receives a flaying as is befitting the magnitude of his errors,” said Master Clee.

From the broad smile on her face, Obi-Wan knew that she actually meant every single word and would actually execute the promised punishment. It must be a generation thing, Obi-Wan mused. Qui-Gon’s friends all seem to emote anger and displeasure using body language that was usually associated with other significantly more positive emotions. For Master Clee, it was all broad smiles and raucous laughter, for Master Binn Ibes, it was praises laced with venom so subtle it took one close to him to realise it was there at all.

On his part, Garen look suitably mortified. It was highly unlikely that he would be overlooking any safety features in the future, though Obi-Wan sure wasn’t going to put stock in any of his creations ever again.

Qui-Gon nodded. “You have my thanks. Now, if we may be excused, I believe my padawan have an appointment with the Halls of Healing to keep, just to make sure that none of his fingers are in imminent danger of being victims to frostbite. May the Force be with you, Clee, Garen.”

With that, he placed a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and steered him away. It took Obi-Wan several seconds to remember the report he had promised to do. He let out an aggrieved sigh, tragically disappointed that his day of vacation had ended up as a series of tragedies.

“At least you’re alive to write that report. Do not be ungrateful,” Qui-Gon chided.

That comment earned an unhappy sulk from Obi-Wan. Those words chafed for no better reason than because Obi-Wan was very well aware that his master would not have said them at all if he wasn’t in such a foul mood himself.

Qui-Gon must have realised that he had subconsciously used Obi-Wan as a punchbag, because he added, “Perhaps I can be persuaded to help out with some parts of it.”

Obi-Wan grinned, gripping onto the extended olive branch tightly with both hands. “Thank you, master.” Then, “How about I visit the Halls of Healing tomorrow?”

Qui-Gon’s lips thinned. “Very well, my very young and recalcitrant padawan. But I promise you, push your luck any harder and you might just run out.”

Said padawan beamed.

~

After entrusting his sullen apprentice to the excellent care of the Jedi Healers, Qui-Gon found himself wondering along the Temple corridors, listening to the undulating crescendo-decrescendo waves of younglings dutifully reciting paragraphs of text out loud as their teacher paced along the length of the class, hungry young waves eagerly lapping up the morsels of knowledge offerred up by the ancient texts. This was replaced instead by the steady drone of tutors lecturing while students quietly dozed in the background when he passed-by the more senior classes. Qui-Gon's lips quirked, recalling a time when he was similarly exhausted after lightsaber training at the end of a long day. Still, the soporific quality of the atmosphere was alarming, considering it was barely past midday of the first day of the week.

The afternoon bell chimed, indicating the hour for lunch break. A ripple of relief washed out from the classes into the corridors, flooding the empty walkway. The Initiates followed closely behind, snaking towards the commissary with great enthusiasm. Having been caught in the head of the current at its onset, Qui-Gon allowed himself to be swept along and swallowed, blending seamlessly into the river of excited yellow and neutral brown. Then, abruptly, the river shimmered a nervous orange, parting around a monolith blazing an aloof grey that was all too familiar.

He saw the disapproving notch between aristocratic brows and the faint wrinkle in the aquiline nose clearly in his mind's eyes long before he saw it in the flesh. Reality differed from imagination in that Dooku's hair was now silver rather than dark, face lines with more wrinkles than he'd remembered, which really wasn't that much more. When their eyes met, Dooku greeted him with the same look of detached interest, more an architect curious about how a building he'd designed early on in his career had fared with the test of time than a father concerned about his itinerant son. It was only fair. After all, their relationship was one of mutual benefit — Dooku had wanted an outstanding padawan to advance his rank and to establish his status as the best Jedi in the Order; Qui-Gon had needed a teacher, and Dooku, for all his detachment, taught well.

“Master Dooku,” he greeted now, anchoring his feet upon the river bed before the parting stone.

Around them, the younger generation darted around them with poorly concealed nervousness. Some of the older Initiates looked to Dooku with interest, perhaps hoping to be taken on as padawan learner before they aged out, not realising that not only was Dooku not interested in taking on another apprentice now that he had achieved his desired rank of Jedi Master, he was also not wont to be interested in any Initiate that was deemed unskilled enough to have been left unselected for so long. Qui-Gon himself was spared several interested glances as well, though by the younger Initiates. His face was a familiar one to them in the salles, and they were equally familiar with his shadow that was Obi-Wan Kenobi, the senior padawan who could easily beat any number of junior knights in the salles and, on a good day, best even a senior Knight. Even to them, it was clear Obi-Wan was not long before his Trials.

“It is unseemly that a Jedi Master should allow himself to be thus dragged along by a gaggle of underfooted youth,” remarked his former master in a clipped tone. He had a quality to his voice that dripped of permanent annoyance, as if everything perceived to be inferior to him was an impedence to his pursuit of greater knowledge. There was much respect to be had for an elderly master who sought still to further himself than rest easy upon his laurels, but Qui-Gon didn't care much for the obvious contempt he felt for the younger generation.

A flutter of embarassment and chagrin coloured the Force when the Initiates overheard their conversation.

“I find their unwavering persistence to press forward towards their ultimate goal to be both an inspiration and delight,” Qui-Gon replied mildly. “And the pigments that adorn their youthful head is a balm to the eyes. Mayhaps it is infectious and I can acquire some more for my own.”

A few Initiates had to duck their heads to conceal their smiles. Qui-Gon shot them an amused look, telling them that yes, they have been caught eavesdropping but no, he didn't mind. Dooku did not look similarly amused.

“Is that so?”

Qui-Gon inclined his head politely. “If you have no further need of me, I should be on my way.”

It was formality only, a courtesy afforded him out of respect for his former master. The Jedi Order, despite its assignments of ranks and seniority, regarded all as equals. A freshly graduated Knight was no more beholden to a Jedi Master as the latter was to the former.

“I should enjoy it very much if you would partake in a cup of tea with me, Qui-Gon.”

Qui-Gon paused. It would be unspeakably rude to decline such an offer, and while he wasn't opposed to breaking decorum when the situation called for it, this wasn't one of them. Besides, the wave of senior Initiates have long since passed, replaced by the more impressionable younglings fresh out of crèche. It would be remiss of him to leave the wrong impression upon the minds of those who as of yet could still only see the world in clearly demarcated swathes of black and white.

“It would be a pleasure, Master Dooku.”

Together, they made their way past the dwindling tail of the hungry serpent and traced the familiar steps back to Dooku's apartment. It wasn't a trail that presented him with fond memories, and though they weren't unpleasant, Qui-Gon had not once over the decades found cause to embark on this particular pilgrimage. He hoped that it would not be the same for Obi-Wan. As arrogant as it was to harbour such thoughts, Qui-Gon hoped that Obi-Wan would not hesitate to seek him between missions if for nothing more than a friendly banter upon graduation.

The door to his former master's apartment, unlike its occupant, was unchanged by time. Qui-Gon waited as the older man activated the door panel and the door slid open with a soft hiss that still sounded familiar to his ears. One. Two. And there, that soft grate of the jamb running over a grain of sand stuck in the sill. Qui-Gon smiled, remembering the little prank Tahl had pulled.

Dooku, by nature, was not an ostentatious man. He owned little by way of possessions, though what little he had were of the finest quality. One such example was the delicate set of china he'd acquired from the craftsman of Aurea which he now perused to serve tea. Qui-Gon himself had a similar set, though his sported a fine crack that had as of present yet to split the entire width of the porcelain wall. Dooku hadn't been interested in the defected item, but a young Qui-Gon had been fascinated by the pot's tenacity, and it was to Qui-Gon the elderly craftsman had bequeathed his family heirloom.

Dutifully, the former padawan cleaned the utensils, filled the pot with water and set it upon the stove to boil.

“Tarine?” offerred Dooku.

“Tarine is fine,” he acquiesced.

The dance was a familiar one. Qui-Gon had, after all, learnt it from Dooku himself. Dooku clicked his tongue in disapproval as he caught the slight hitch in his otherwise fluid movement.

“Such inelegance,” said Dooku. It was an objective analysis, not a personal insult, so Qui-Gon acknowledged it, accepted it and let it slide.

“Law and order is more Obi-Wan's thing,” he admitted. Where Qui-Gon stifled under stringent rules, Obi-Wan excelled in them, a creeping plant upon a towering rod, borrowing from its unyielding strength to advance upwards.

Dooku hummed. “Is that so?” He meant the tea.

“Oh, he's gifted, to be sure.” Not that Obi-Wan was aware of it. He'd always thought himself clumsy in comparison to Qui-Gon. One day Qui-Gon would have to enlighten him of the fact. Maybe the first time he invited Qui-Gon for tea after his Knighting. And served him right to agonise longer if he took ages to invite his former master for tea. “Spectacularly so, though in different areas.” Now, he didn't mean the tea.

Dooku nodded, non-committal. He accepted the tea bowl and swirled the tea expertly in the bowl cupped within his palms. “There is much to be learnt from the creed of the yore.”

The Code is meant to serve as a guide, not to bind the living to a dead law. But that was his opinion, amd everyone was allowed their own. He ducked his head politely.

“I would like to meet this padawan of yours,” said Dooku.

Qui-Gon wouldn't fool himself into believing that Dooku cared. He merely wanted to see if his grandpadawan lived up to his lineage or if the young man would embarrass him again as Xanatos had. Not that there was anything wrong in wanting such a thing. Obi-Wan might even learn a thing or two of Makashi from the old Jedi Master.

“We'll see.” Not a promise, but not a refusal either. He would not make any promises on his padawan's behalf.

The rest of the tea was finished in silence.


	7. The Council (Qui-Gon)

Master and padawan rode the turbolift leading up to the topmost floor of one of the temple’s ordinal-oriented towers that served as the High Council Tower in silence. The former observed the latter out of the corner of his eyes, watching for the slight shift in stance that was his nervous tell. Thus far, Obi-Wan seemed to have fared fairly well, showing none of his usual agitation at the prospect of facing the High Council. Judging from the vertical groove between his brows that seemed to have etched itself a permanent place on the otherwise unlined planes of his forehead since their return from Abregado-taki, Qui-Gon figured that that probably had more to do with the fact that he was preoccupied ruminating about something faraway and obscure rather than actually taking up his advise to concentrate on the here and now or finally learning to be at ease in his own skin in front of his superiors.

A soft ping signalled that they had arrived at the highest floor. The familiar sight of the pair of masked Jedi Temple Guards standing guard in the larmalstone lobby greeted them as soon as the doors opened. Masked and armoured, they served a purpose so detached from the one field Jedi such as Qui-Gon had that it had always felt foreign to him. It was no less important a task, yet Qui-Gon always wondered at the faces behind the mask. What were they thinking? Feeling? Did they resent this loss of individualism, their very identity on top of their vows of non-attachment? Qui-Gon set the thoughts aside and exited the turbolift, giving a respectful bow to his fellow Jedi. All sentients were born different, he knew, each one's hearts drawn to duties and passions unique to them. Just as he wondered at the Temple Guards, they would be wondering at him, the mad man rushing about the galaxy, charging headfirst into dangerous situations seemingly to pursue a quick death. That wasn't all that he did, but theirs wasn't to know, just as he wouldn't know the motivation that drove them to their dedication.

Behind him, his distracted padawan leapt out of the turbolift seconds before the door slid shut in front of his face and bowed hastily at the two Jedi. The pair inclined their heads in acknowledgement and waved them in, giving no hint of amusement or disapproval at their younger brethren’s antiques. As the pair stepped into the High Council Chamber, the indicator atop the sliding doors flared to life, indicating to those coming after that the Council was in session. The door hissed shut behind them, emitting a soft whir and click as it slid back into position.

The High Council Chamber, being on the summit of the southwest tower, was blessed with a panoramic view of the surrounding city through double layers of transparisteel walls separated by a narrow corridor, the structure held up by five columns arching upwards around the perimeter of the chamber to meet in the centre at the top, forming a dome-shaped ceiling. Light from the sun rising from the east filtered through, setting fire to the fern-shaped motives decorating the lush carpet that covered the floors, the only semblance of a plant visible for any distance despite this vantage point from a high ground. Coruscant was an ecumenopolis, a forest of soaring spires and sprawling ziggurat made of duracrete and transparisteel, growing out of stratified layers of labyrinthine durasteel vegetation. The natural surface of Coruscant had long since been buried over by the ever-expanding city millennia hence, so much so that no one alive had ever seen a grain of the planet’s soil — or at least, none that ever made it to the planet's artificial surface to tell the tale. Still, it was unlikely that there were any life forms still dwelling that far beneath, for even the most dedicated of archaeologists in centuries past had failed to unearth anything pertaining the Galactic Capital’s historical past.

Qui-Gon drew his musings back to here and now. All twelve members of the High Council were present, occupying stone chairs of various sizes and shapes arranged equidistant from each other in an open circle. Said opening faced the door from which Jedi seeking an audience with the High Council would enter — the same one that Qui-Gon and his padawan had just passed through. The Force within the chamber churned a putrid orange, marking an uncharacteristically high amount of stress from the Councillors. Qui-Gon stepped forwards cautiously to occupy the left side of the opening, leaving room for his padawan to take up the right. The young man came to a stop a step behind him, taking up the traditional spot for a padawan. As one, they bowed, the only opening greeting required for the occasion.

“At Abregado-taki, found much fish, have you?” asked Yoda, speaking up first.

Qui-Gon did not miss the loaded look Mace shot Yoda. That was the biggest indication to Qui-Gon that that wasn’t the topic they had been summoned to discuss, which means that there would be more following this discussion. He wondered briefly at the tension in the air, then let it go in favour of focusing on the present topic being discussed.

“Two thousand, at least. We uncovered a cache of B1-series battle droids buried in a cave,” said Obi-Wan, speaking up upon receiving the gentle nudge from Qui-Gon. “There was no identifying insignia that we could discern.”

“Mmm… Much improvement you have with the lightsaber, if in the middle of a grand battle, spare the time to examine a destroyed droid you have,” said Yoda.

There was a rush of emotion from his padawan’s end of the bond. Realisation and contrition marked with a tinge of embarrassment. A few years ago, back when Obi-Wan was still getting used to the weight of the braid he wore, the emotions would have weighed the other way around and embarrassment came first. Obi-Wan dipped his head in. “My apologies, Master Yoda. We did not _notice_  any identifying insignia.”

Yoda nodded. “Important, such a distinction is, if to the Senate, we must report. Remember this you will, Obi-Wan.”

A ripple stirred through the rest of the council, orange waves intensifying as the waves of unrest roiled in the Force, cresting and crashing. Clearly, the rest of the Council was getting impatient with Yoda's little detour. Qui-Gon willed the currents to wash over him, but little eddies seeped past his defence, leaking agitation into him.

“With all due respect, Yoda, I do not believe we have been summoned to discuss about the semantics of my padawan’s report,” Qui-Gon interrupted. He kept his tone neutral, but as ever, nothing ever escaped his grandmaster unnoticed.

“To only discuss this, we did not, but discuss it, we must. Be mindful of his words, young Kenobi must, if a diplomat, he wishes to be,” said Yoda sternly.

Suitably chastised, Qui-Gon inclined his head. Obi-Wan studied him, the oddly silent bond telling him that the padawan was reserving his own judgement about his somewhat uncharacteristic show of impatience. Here, Yoda turned to Mace, the Grand Master relinquishing the floor to the Master of the Order at last.

“As of two weeks ago, the Trade Federation had launched a blockade on the Mid-Rim planet of Naboo in protest to the tax on trade routes. The Chancellor has requested Jedi help to negotiate with the Trade Federation on lifting the blockade,” said Mace without preamble, launching straight into the heart of the matter as per his usual habit of handling missions. He was leaning forward on his seat, the lines of his body marked with a tension that was not normally present.

When the Master of the Order was tensed, that could only mean bad news. Clearly, there was more to the mission than one of simple ambassadorial duty. If they chose to dispatch the Maverick for negotiation efforts, like as not, they were expecting the employment of unorthodox methods. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Obi-Wan straighten his already ramrod straight back, no doubt having caught on to the ominous energy that pervaded the mission the Korun master was about to send them to.

“You will need to exercise extreme caution in handling this matter. This mission isn’t sanctioned by the Senate,” Ki-Adi warned.

That explained it. While the Jedi answered to the Supreme Chancellor in terms of carrying out missions to best serve the Republic, anything that involved the internal politics of one of the Senate’s member bodies required Senate approval. Under normal circumstances, the Chancellor could easily brush it off as exercising his prerogative as head of the Senate to lend humanitarian aid to a member body under duress. As it was, Chancellor Vallorum was mired in rumours of various scandals ranging from embezzlement to the nepotism. The Chancellor’s actions, though of well-meaning intent, would be cause enough for his political rivals to decry it as further evidence of an abuse of power. Vallorum was a noble man as far as politicians went, but it was unlikely that his career would suffer any further blows.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Qui-Gon saw Obi-Wan give a slight nod in understanding, having caught on to the nuances himself. He felt a responding surge of pride in his chest.

_He is ready._

And yet something stopped him from bringing up the matter of Obi-Wan’s Trials.

_Not yet. Not just yet. Immediately after this mission, maybe._

He wondered at his own reluctance. Was this his own stubbornness, or the will of the Force? Often, when he had his own emotions mixed up in the fray, it was terribly hard to tell. A Jedi needed to be detached in order to view the world in an objectively and not be clouded by personal sentiment. Dooku had told him that often enough, and as much as it irked Qui-Gon to admit that his master was right, he had to admit that there was some truth to the statement. Yoda himself had never berated Qui-Gon for his propensity for attachment, but then Yoda had never found need to point out a weakness or character flaw to a recipient who already knew of it.

Either you knew your own flaw but stubbornly refused to change, and having someone nagging at you won’t change a thing; or you didn’t know and needed to be enlightened. The methods employed for the latter only got harsher the more one attempted to blind oneself to one’s own flaws, and so most Jedi learnt from an early age not to try to delude oneself of one’s own shortcomings.

The Grand Master of the Order was looking at him, studying him intently, waiting for his next move.

“We will be discrete,” Qui-Gon assured the Cerean Jedi Master.

Yoda folded his other hand over the one currently resting on the gnarled knob that was his gimer stick’s handle, impassive, betraying nothing of what he felt.

A flash of yellow coloured the Force to his right, the Force equivalent to a disbelieving snort, lighthearted and playful. Qui-Gon shot his padawan a glare out of the corner of his eyes. Obi-Wan met his eyes straight on, his face an impassive mask save for the slight dimple in his cheek that betrayed his mirth.

 _~Imp,~_ he chided the young man through their bond, secretly pleased that the other had finally fully reemerged from whichever corner of his mind he normally went to brood.

The dimple deepened.

 _~If I’m an imp, what does that make you?~_ Qui-Gon could almost hear the words take shape in his head based on the flurry of emotion and mental images that Obi-Wan was projecting. The training bond was never meant to be used for communication on such a level, and either way it can only be executed when they were in close proximity to each other, but it was a useful skill to have, especially when one was in the presence of others and couldn’t speak out loud.

 _~An idiot man who let an imp’s dimples convince him into taking him home,~_ he retorted, projecting a sense of self-deprecation and playful annoyance at said dimples.

The tug at the corners of Obi-Wan’s lips was unmistakable.

“You will find all information pertinent to the mission uploaded on your datapads,” said Mace, seeing but ignoring the playful banter taking place right under his nose. The stern look in his eyes said that he was not impressed with the pair’s lighthearted take of the matter. “May the Force be with you.”

In a single, fluid motion, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan both bowed.

 

* * *

 

Master and padawan stood waiting for their assigned transport in the hangar, both pointedly ignoring the conversation making rounds among the workers about the latest crashed starship. Jokes were made about the pilots’ nonexistent navigation skills while others lamented the loss, boiling it down to the archetypal behaviour of most sentients while flying, treating their starships like a mere tool to be used until it could be used no more and then discarded like nary more than a piece of junk instead of a partner that needed to be serviced and tended to on a regular basis.

Qui-Gon hadn’t quite made up his mind if they weren’t aware that the two pilots in question were standing in their midst, listening in to their every jibe, or if they were fully aware and this was a deliberate jeer to vent frustration at a perceived waste of a good ship. The latter accusation, at least, had some truth to it, considering that if he had taken the time to run a pre-flight check of the ship in person rather than depend on the ship’s built-in system analysis, he would have picked up on the fault. Instead, he had let himself be distracted, and _Kiros_  had paid the price. He could only thank the Force no one was harmed in the debacle.

To his side, Obi-Wan stood with his back straight and head high, though the shroud of purple flapping around him from shoulder to heels told a different story, telling him that the maligned banter was seeping past his apprentice’s mental bulwark. No doubt the young man would be able to shed the cape of self-doubt on his own — had in fact proved himself more than capable on more than several occasions — but Qui-Gon saw no reason to withhold a bit of encouragement.

“Others are entitled to their opinions of us,” he advised softly. “They may see a crashed landing in your records and assume that it was due to negligence or tardiness on your part. Let them. They will learn in time that you are neither, and that’s what matters the most.”

Obi-Wan shook his head even as the purple around him dissipated. “It’s not my own records that troubles me, but much rather…” He trailed off.

“Mine,” Qui-Gon finished. He saw Obi-Wan give a nod. “Ah… Well, it _was_  an oversight on my part — you were out of commission, but that was hardly reason for me to not perform the safety checks. It wasn’t as if you were at risk of dying.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “And if it eases you any, my record isn’t exactly as unimpeachable as what your twelve-year-old self seemed inclined to believe. One additional blot won’t hurt.” That did the job of distracting his padawan from the matter at hand. He was rewarded by a well-deserved snort, and the cape fluttered away with the wind.

In the distance, the familiar shape of a Consular-class cruiser painted red in the colour of ambassadorial neutrality glided into view. As it drew closer, the ship slowed and concealed hatches opened on the underside of the craft, lowering the long stilts of landing struts. It came to a hover over the designated docking bay, repulsor engines firing away to lower the vessel gently upon the landing struts. Qui-Gon started forwards towards the _Radiant VII_  as the hatch opened and a docking ramp was lowered to meet the pilots who were assigned to transport them to their destination. Beside him, Obi-Wan strode along, fighting to keep his pace this side away from jogging outright.

They were met by two humans, a fair-skinned woman with short-cropped brown hair and a taller, darker skinned man with hair cut even closer to his scalp. From their getup to their posture, there was no mistaking their military background. Qui-Gon wondered briefly at this, trying to ascertain as to whether he should be concerned about the use of military-trained pilots on an allegedly purely diplomatic mission. Nevertheless, the cruiser was unarmed, which bode well for projecting a non-threatening stance.

“Greetings, Masters Jedi. I am Captain Maoi Madakor, and this is Lieutenant Antidar Williams, my copilot,” said the woman. Tendrils of orange coiled around her and her partner. No doubt they, too, were stressed up about the upcoming mission.

“I am Qui-Gon Jinn and this is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I thank you in advance for providing us with transport,” said Qui-Gon, projecting a wave of calm into the Force.

The woman’s hand half-rose as if to give a salute, then recalled her place and nodded instead. “If you please, we have no time to waste.”

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan bowed and followed the pilots up onto the ramp. The interior was just as standardised as the exterior was, from the metal tiles floor and ceiling to the colour and location of every control panel. There was much comfort to be had with the familiar layout, and Qui-Gon was grateful that this ship was nowhere as near claustrophobic as the _Kiros_.

“I am aware that you are familiar with the layout of this ship, Master Jedi, but duty dictates I brief you on the safety protocols of this ship,” said Captain Madakor.

Of course. Qui-Gon inclined his head politely. He wondered how long had it been since the captain had to personally brief someone about safety protocol. Not since she was a cadet, most likely. Unless she was used to flying ships that came without a flight crew like this one.

Not even a protocol droid that would put absolutely no strain on the ship’s oxygen recyclers? That was highly unusual. It seemed to him that the Chancellor was exceedingly eager to project an image of good will. The situation at the senate must be worse than he’d caught on.

The young captain was gesturing to a hatch leading below. “—and that is the entrance to the salon pod. In the event of an emergency, the lights along the corridor here will direct you to the escape pods located on the aft of the ship.” She gestured towards the lighting panels that ran along both sides of the floor. “Once in, the escape pods are preprogrammed with a homing beacon that will lead you directly to the nearest Republican spaceport.”

 _~If I’m going to sabotage a Republican ship, I’m going to either make sure I reprogramme the escape pods to head to the nearest Hutt space first, or make sure I have control of the nearest spaceport,~_ Obi-Wan projected. Outwardly, he was the picturesque show of utmost attentiveness; inwardly, he was paying about as much attention as one would the lengthy opening address of a politician’s speech.

_~To be fair, anyone with an inkling of what they’re doing will know how to override the automatic controls and turn on manual navigation. Those who don’t, are better off prisoners on a planet than corpses drifting in space.~_

Obi-Wan shot him a look at the mental image, looking uncertain if he should be laughing or shuddering.

“Please strap yourselves in. We will be departing shortly.”

Qui-Gon drew his attention back in time to hear the captain finishing her briefing. Captain and lieutenant were looking to them, seeming to be awaiting some sort of cue.

 _Military-trained_ , thought Qui-Gon with a mental sigh. But in this instance, it proved beneficial to him because he did have something to say.

“If you please, we would like to be present in the cockpit when you make first contact with the Trade Federation,” said Qui-Gon.

The captain looked to her lieutenant, though it wasn’t a guarded look shared between two wary partners but that of a commanding officer relaying duty to a subordinate.

“We will notify you,” Lieutenant Williams promised.

Qui-Gon inclined his head. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, quick heads up! Those of you who were around to catch that deleted A/N back in Chapter 3 will probably know this already, but I'll be really busy in October moving >1500km across the freaking ocean _and_ starting a new job that is renown to have killer hours so... With all due honesty, I don't know when my next update will be, but rest be assured that I will eventually get around to updating. As I'd mentioned, the draft for this fic is done. I just need time to go through my writing and try to straighten out all the weird, exceedingly OOC moments that is grating on my nerves etc but it's not going to be top priority for me any time soon. Ideally, I'll be able to start updating again sometime mid to late November??? But no promises x.x If you don't hear from me, rest be assured that I am _not_ dead. Thank you everyone for your patience!!! May you be blessed with an abundance of understanding and supportive employers/lecturers/staff/clients.


	8. The Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I know I said I'll be back mid November, but back in October and November I was working >100 hours a week and my brain was just fried. After the latest change to my work schedule, I work approx 80 hours a week so I'm definitely feeling much more alive now (I actually have time to eat lunch now! Yay me :D).
> 
> This chapter isn't so much a chapter as it is an intermission transitioning from semi canon-compliant to outright fanfic. In other words, it's mostly a recap of the first thirty minutes or so of TPM and I hope no one gets bored to death lol

All in all, the negotiation, if it could even be called that, was a disaster of a scale quite unlike any Qui-Gon had in his entire life, given the fact of how quickly it had devolved into blaster fire. In all due fairness, he had somewhat anticipated violence coming to them — the tension aboard the _Profiteer_  was so dense, the entire ship was awash with gooey orange haze thick enough to slice through — though he’d assumed they would at least have a chance to talk first, and he certainly hadn't expected an attack of this scale. As it was, they didn’t even come face to face with the representatives of the Trade Federation. The only view they had of the Neimodian Viceroy Nute Gunray was via a viewing screen while still aboard the now-demolished _Radiant VII_. As they hitched a ride to Naboo on one of the Trade Federation’s battleships, he pointedly ignored Obi-Wan’s constant stream of teasing pokes at his shields through their bond, arms folded into his sleeves, a dissatisfied scowl on his face.

_~Yes, yes. You were right to have a bad feeling,~_ he sighed. _~Will you stop poking me? I need to think and you’re not helping.~_

Obi-Wan beamed at him and settled down comfortably beside him, their shoulders pressed together from sheer proximity of the close quarters. The Jedi Master knew that despite his outward show of playfulness, a tinge of shocked purple and guilty blue over the destruction of the _Radiant VII_  lingered still in the giant closet at the back of Obi-Wan’s head where he kept information that did not immediately benefit the mission locked up for analysis later when there was time for it. Going by the speed at which things were spiralling out of control, he thought it might have to keep for quite a while yet. If the young man actually ever got around to sorting through any of the trash he kept stored up in there, that is.

Obi-Wan really needed to learn how to let go of those feelings faster if he didn’t want to burn himself out. There was only so much a Jedi can do to help. They can't possibly go beating themselves up for every life they failed to save, or they would be too battered and bruised to do anything to be of use to anyone. Jedi who didn't learn to let go fast enough often wound up getting disillusioned and leaving the Order.

_~Those droids on Abregado-taki… I think they’re connected,~_ Obi-Wan mused, interrupting his thoughts.

The Jedi Master found that he agreed. The battalion they’d found on-board the _Profiteer_  was of a similar make, though the movement of those seemed to be far more agile than their brethren that got abandoned on an icy rock. The idea that the two were connected troubled Qui-Gon. How many other stashes of battle droids did the Trade Federation secretly own? Such a large number of droids could not be manufactured overnight, and no one bothered to own so many droids if they didn’t plan to use it. This blockade, it seemed, was really an excuse for an all-out invasion. This wasn't a blockade that escalated into violence; it was a planned out war disguised as a simple blockade.

Yet it didn’t make sense. The Neimodians that ran the Trade Federation, though known to be ruthless in their business tactics, were not warriors like the Mandalorian warriors of the yore. Instead, they were more aptly compared to the sly management of Offworld Corporation, sabotaging competitions and coercing small, independent companies into cooperating with them in order to expand their influence. War wasn’t within their purview and either way, they were cowards. Everything about the situation screamed of a bigger picture that remain shrouded in mystery. There must be someone directing them behind all this, but who? Who had the power and the means of defying the Galactic Senate on such a capacity?

_~Master?~_

He could feel the trickle of concern from Obi-Wan, telling him that he had reamined silent for too long. He wasn’t normally so distracted.

_~I think so too, Obi-Wan. I fear this may bode ill for us and the people on Naboo.~_

He wanted to avoid a war if he could. Experience told him that whenever there was a war, things got out of control really fast. Yet how do you reason with someone who wouldn't even see you?

_~We’ll get to the palace, find the Queen and warn her. Between both of us, we have the map of the city memorised. How hard can it be?~_ asked Obi-Wan.

Warn her, and then what? That was an overly simplistic way of viewing things. One cannot simply concentrate on putting one foot ahead of the other without paying any mind to where wished to thread the next step.

It took Obi-Wan’s shoulders shaking to realise that he had been _had_ , and Obi-Wan was teasing him for his earlier insistence to focus on the here and now. If they weren’t at risk of drawing attention to themselves with the slightest sound, Qui-Gon would have smacked him. Instead, he rolled his eyes at the young man and reached one hand over to yank on his padawan braid. Their bond buzzed with Obi-Wan’s amusement.

He was really going to miss this, he realised, having someone to talk to to ward away the boredom of lengthy space travel, someone to watch his back in battle, someone to care for and to lean on in turn. And he was going to have to let all of that go.

_~It will be dangerous for the Queen to remain here if a war breaks out. We may need to have her removed temporarily. To Coruscant, maybe, at least until further negotiations can be had and a ceasefire is agreed to,~_ said Obi-Wan, letting drop the veil of playfulness and adopting a serious countenance.

_~That is a good idea. Having the Queen bring her case before the Senate and petition in person may win more Senators to her cause. Encourage them to vote to take action faster.~_

Yet surely the Neimodians must have thought of this. Declaring a full-fledged war on a planet would buy them no sympathies on the Senate. So far, they had had the support of the Senators who were more keen on lining their pockets with profits from trade agreements made with the Trade Federation than spending Republic fundings in assistance of what was perceived to be an inconsequential planet that offered them no benefits. However, war would shift the tides against them. After enjoying centuries of peace, no one wanted another intergalactic war to take place.

Either the Neimodians were certain that news of the invasion would not leak out, or they had something else entirely up their sleeves. Perhaps meeting up with the Queen and listening to the story on her end would help clear things up.

Qui-Gon peered through the narrow slit in the utility closet. A large viewport stood beyond them, through which they could just barely make out a variegated blue and green planet drawing closer by the second. Judging by the direction they were headed…

_~I think we’re heading towards the southern hemisphere,~_ he informed his padawan grimly.

That did no good to anyone. Theed, the human-occupied city, was located on the northern hemisphere. The south was a series of swamplands populated by the Gungans, a amphibious species that built their cities underwater and largely kept to themselves. As far as reports went, the humans and Gungans on Naboo weren’t on the friendliest of terms, which was not to say that they were at war at each other, but rather that they tended to ignore each other. It would take forever to reach the opposite pole on foot.

Obi-Wan peered through the slit for himself and scowled.

_~We’ll need to steal one of their transports,~_ he said, projecting the image of a tank they had seen earlier; a STAP, Single Aerial Trooper Platform.

The ship penetrated the atmosphere of the planet. The experience was akin to witnessing a supernova exploding before one’s eyes. One moment, nothing. Then, the next, there was a bright flare as the Living Force lit up with the life energy of a million living beings. It was no exaggeration when the dossier provided them for the purpose of the mission described the planet to have more life forms in one square kilometer than entire planets elsewhere in the galaxy. Qui-Gon momentarily allowed his worries to be swept away, basking in the glory of the dazzling beacon of harmonious green that enveloped the land. The ship drew closer, and traces of red and purple began polluting the Force as the army landed and began terrorising the local fauna. Here, he felt a vague nudge at the periphery of his senses, heard the faintest of a whisper. The Force that surrounds, binds and penetrates the lifeforms of the planet rebelled against the invasion, and was already setting into motion plans of its own to remove the intruders. All Qui-Gon needed to do was listen to its bidding.

_~Not necessarily, my young friend. The Force may present us another way yet.~_

If the way happened to involve being nearly killed no thanks to one clumsy local and a perilous bongo ride through the planet’s core, at least it did its job of bringing them safely to the Queen in time to save her from being taken captive.

 

* * *

 

Qui-Gon had read the reports concerning Naboo's newly elected Queen. Queen Amidala hailed from a great family well-known for their many contributions to the planet’s politics and during the short term since her election, had thoroughly won over the love and respect of her people. In running the day-to-day affairs of the small Mid-Rim planet, she had proved herself more than capable, showing a deep compassion and understanding for the needs of her people and passing legislations and bills accordingly for the betterment of the planet. However, this blockade by the Trade Federation was the first major crisis she faced since her ascension — the first major crisis of such a scale faced by the pacifist planet in over a century, in fact — and her true mettle was soon to be put to test.

Judging from the holovids of her public appearances, she had a propensity for wearing heavy make-ups and grandiose wigs, and kept a coterie of handmaidens her own age around herself. Speculations from reporters off-planet was that there served as a cover for her young age, yet Qui-Gon thought otherwise. At fifteen standard, she was hardly the youngest monarch to be elected to the role — was in fact, two years older than the average age of thirteen — so on Naboo itself at least, there was no need for her to feel diminished by her age. She had yet to have need to make a public appearance outside of her home planet so there was no pressure to appear older than she really was either.

What game was she playing at?

Now, watching the Queen’s carefully unaffected face and deliberately affected speech pattern, Qui-Gon suspected that there was more to this Queen than meets the eye. At four times the young monarch’s age, he had seen enough subterfuge to recognise one when it greeted his eyes. If the Trade Federation had thought Naboo an easy picking because of the youth of its monarch and its lack of military presence, they had something else coming their way.

“Thank you, ambassador, but my place is here with my people,” said Queen Amidala. She barely reached up to his shoulders, yet she met his eyes steadily, refusing to flee even in the face of the imminent threats to her life.

_~Perhaps the black feather headdress towering over our heads doubles as a confidence booster,~_ suggested Obi-Wan, eyeing it critically.

Actually, no, it was not likely. Qui-Gon hadn’t missed the slight hesitation in her voice or the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, and nor did Obi-Wan. The comment was likely to be one of Obi-Wan’s ill-timed humour, and he indulged his padawan with a snort in the Force, acknowledging his padawan’s playful jibe at his own inadequate height.

Out loud, he said, “They will kill you if you stay.”

This was immediately greeted with outrage by the Queen’s retinue.

“They wouldn’t dare,” cried a portly man with a balding head, wisps of silvery-white hair still clinging upon his temples. Qui-Gon recognised him to be Sio Bibble, the Governor of Naboo. Clearly, he was outraged by the suggestion of violence.

“They need her to sign a treaty to make this invasion of theirs legal,” explained a dark-skinned young man who appeared to be the head of security. This could only be Captain Quarsh Panaka. “They can’t afford to kill her.”

Throughout the entire outcry, the Queen herself had remained oddly silent, seeming content to play the observer while her subordinates bickered between themselves over her head. Something about her quiet demeanour did not match the ferocity Qui-Gon thought he had seen her display from the recordings of her public speeches.

There had to be some fire in there somewhere.

“The situation here is not what it seems. There is something else behind all this, Your Highness,” said Qui-Gon, addressing the Queen directly to appeal to her better judgement. “There is no logic in the Federation’s move here. My feelings tell me they will destroy you.”

Then, it was there again, that flicker of indecision. For a person known for pushing forwards with controversial policies without qualms, she seemed terribly lost. Not that he held it against her. It was one thing to face down adversaries on the political battlefield which was very much her terrain and her field of expertise, and another altogether to be facing battle droids and tanks on an actual battlefield. Qui-Gon held her eyes, willing her to see reason.

Sio Bibble, as the most experienced member of the Queen’s current retinue, was the first to see the logic in Qui-Gon’s understanding. “Please, your Highness, reconsider. Our only hope is for the Senate to side with us. Senator Palpatine will need your help.”

In truth, Qui-Gon wasn’t sure how much help appealing to the Senate would be, but surely it was better than sitting back waiting to be killed.

Captain Panaka looked dubious. “Getting past their blockade is impossible, Your Highness. Any attempt to escape will be dangerous,” he warned, trying to dissuade his charge from taking any unnecessary risk.

“Your Highness,” Sio Bibble interrupted, “I will stay here and do what I can. They will have to retain the Council of Governors in order to maintain control. But you must leave!”

In the face of two of her officers bickering in disagreement over the best course of action, the Queen tore her eyes away and turned, much to Qui-Gon’s surprise, to look at her handmaidens. “Either choice presents a great risk… to all of us…” she said slowly, scanning her eyes over the faces of the three girls with her.

There was a hesitation to her voice as she spoke, as if she was searching for something. But what? Why turn to her handmaidens for help in times such as these? Qui-Gon felt something inside him stir with sympathy. At the end of the day, no matter her political prowess, Queen Amidala was still very much a vulnerable young girl. She should not have been placed in such a spot in the first place.

It concerned Qui-Gon that the citizens of Theed thought it suitable to elect as their head of State girls so young, but each planet was allowed their own sovereignty and independent governments, and either way, it was not as if Qui-Gon was in a place to pass criticism — he himself first set foot upon a battlefield and faced an army on his own one day shy of twelve standard. It seemed the galaxy at large was a mad world indeed, split between imposing on children duties too big for their tiny shoulders to bear too soon and coddling adults old enough to have children of their own. There was nothing for it but to make do with what life had to offer one.

One of the girls dressed in the bright vermilion gown lifted her head and said in a steady voice, “We are brave, Your Highness.”

Something in the Queen’s demeanour shifted, a decision made.

“If you are to leave, Your Highness, it must be now,” urged Qui-Gon.

“Then I will plead our case before the Senate,” the Queen announced in a determined voice. She turned to the Sio Bibble. “Be careful, governor.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes were on the handmaiden that had spoken up, watching her closely. There was something about this girl, something about the way her words had helped the Queen make her decision so swiftly. None of the other two had reacted, so it was clear that even though the Queen had turned to her handmaidens in general seeking help, it was this girl who helped make up her mind. He filed the thought away to be analysed later. For now, they had more important business to attend to.

* * *

 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan stood before the Queen and waited patiently while Captain Panaka lavished accolade upon the astromech droid responsible for the reparation of the starship’s deflector shields that ultimately enabled their escape from the Trade Federation. The little blue droid beeped merrily, taking great delight in its accomplishment.

“Thank you, Artoo Detoo, you have proven to be very loyal,” said the Queen. Without removing her eyes from the droid, she bade, “Padmé.”

The handmaiden from earlier stepped forwards hastily and turned to the queen to await her orders.

“Clean this droid up the best you can. It deserves our gratitude,” said the Queen with a small smile on her face.

Something flickered over Padmé’s countenance, though it was gone as quickly as it came. Was it irritation? Surely not. Handmaidens were used to being ordered to do menial tasks all the time. She bowed submissively and hastened towards the droid.

“Continue, captain,” said the Queen, turning her head slightly towards her security forces captain, who hesitated and shot a nervous glance at the two Jedi.

It did not escape Qui-Gon’s notice that Padmé hovered next to R2-D2 and lingered to listen in rather than leave immediately to carry out her orders.

“Your Highness, we are heading for a remote planet called Tatooine. It is a system outside the reach of the Trade Federation. There, we will be able to make needed repairs, then travel on to Coruscant.” The irony of Obi-Wan having just mentioned earlier about saboteurs hijacking escape pods to travel to Hutt space to trap anyone trying to escape from a doomed vessel versus them making the conscious decision to travel there themselves now on a starship with a leaking hyperdrive to escape imminent danger was not lost upon him. Safety and danger really just depended on the situation and one’s point of view.

Captain Panaka turned back to the queen. “Your Highness, Tatooine is very dangerous. It’s controlled by an alliance of gangs called the Hutts. I do not agree with the Jedi on this,” he cautioned.

“You must trust my judgement, Your Highness,” Qui-Gon pressed.

Well, technically it was Obi-Wan's idea, but he fully supported it. Telling a planetary ruler to have faith in a seemingly suicidal plan concocted by an apprentice rarely inspired confidence, no matter how prepared said apprentice was.

The Queen looked first to him, before moving her eyes sideways to look at Obi-Wan, then Padmé. Out of the corner of his eyes, Qui-Gon saw Padmé meet the Queen’s eyes and give a quick nod.

“We will do as the Jedi says, captain,” the Queen said.

Qui-Gon turned to regard Padmé, who immediately averted her gaze and ushered the astromech droid out with her, as if suddenly reminded of her orders. He pondered over this exchange. It cannot be mere coincidence that both times a major decision needed to be made, the Queen had turned to Padmé for advice. Something told him that the Queen was nothing more than a figurehead, and Padmé was really the de facto leader of Naboo. That would explain Padmé's reaction to being ordered about and the group of young handmaidens she kept around her. If Padmé had been the lone girl among a group of senior women, she would have stood out too much and drawn too much attention. As it was, she was nothing more than a lowly servant, one of the few girls the Queen kept close to herself and dispatched on occasion to do her bidding. That gave Padmé the freedom to move around without being noticed.

It was a brilliant arrangement, Qui-Gon mused, as he exited the Queen’s presence, Obi-Wan trailing behind. But now the question was did anyone else on the Queen’s retinue know of this? And if the situation calls for it, whose safety was to be his first priority? The ceremonial figurehead that was the sovereign of the country, or the nobody who was the actual moving force behind everything?

He recalled what he knew of the Queen’s reputation and what he’d seen from holovids and compared it with what he’d seen of the Queen up close in person. Somehow, it didn’t quite match. It was almost as if they were two different people. Almost as if…

He scratched at his beard absently, wondering at Padmé. Her presence coloured the Force faintly a bright yellow-orange, which unlike its duller counterpart which signified impatience and stress, heralded to confidence and determination. Something told Qui-Gon that if holovids could capture the colour of the Force, he would see the same colour over Queen Amidala in those footages.

He turned and beckoned his apprentice, who had thus far remained oddly silent. “Obi-Wan, keep watch,” he told him. “I need to meditate over this.”

_~Over what? Padmé?~_

Obi-Wan met his master’s stare with a quirked brow. No doubt Obi-Wan, too, had picked up on the deception and came to the conclusion that Padmé was really the true leader of Naboo. However, it was unlikely that he had come to the conclusion as he had that she _was_  the Queen of Naboo, and whoever donning the persona of Queen Amidala right now was only a decoy.

Qui-Gon levelled Obi-Wan an unimpressed stare. Obi-Wan ducked his head meekly in submission.

“Yes, master,” he said out loud, for the benefit of those around them.

Qui-Gon nodded and settled in a corner to meditate, ignoring the holes Panaka was shooting into the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally go around fishing for comments, but if you're reading this story and you would like to get an update, please comment below. It doesn't have to be much. Just a "hi" will suffice. I'd like to know how many people actually care enough about this story to warrant my making an effort to edit the chapters enough that they're worth posting online. Because if no one's actually interested, I'd much rather spend my free time sleeping. Just saying ;)


	9. Tatooine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who commented in the previous chapter! <3 You guys are precious. Sorry it took so long to post this. On a side note, I'm rereading the stuff that I'd wrote and in my head I'm kind of going, 'uh... what's happening here? Why did you even think this was a good idea?' and really? I don't have the faintest clue. I left footnotes that I absolutely can't make sense of for the life of me. orz

The meditation didn’t help. If anything, it just left Qui-Gon feeling more disgruntled than before, mind swirling with the confusing mumbo jumbo of information the Force whispered to him via its microscopic messengers that resided in his cells. To be fair, he had approached the Force with a confused mind a jumble of unclear questions, so it was no wonder that he received a jumble of unclear answers in return.

All he could discern was that there was something big looming over them, an ominous darkness that threatened to overthrow the light and take control of the galaxy. Already, the evil had taken root and was beginning to spread its shoots throughout the galaxy, poisoning everything it came into contact with.

*What can I do to stop this?* he wondered.

 _What are you willing do?_  a tiny voice in his mind asked.

Was it his subconsciousness, or the Force? It did not matter. Qui-Gon considered only the question.

_Anything._

Yet he received no answer with regards to what he should do or what needed to be done. He opened himself up to the Force, willing it to use him as its talisman to work its will, yet he gained no profound insight, no new knowledge. Here in space, away from the influence of the billions of life forms that needed his help, he could gain no inspiration, no epiphany about how to move forward to best serve those he was sworn to protect. Lost in the vacuum of space where stars and planets reside, it was the Unifying Force that held domain, and that was more Obi-Wan’s speciality than his.

At last, he stumbled out of the meditation to find Obi-Wan dutifully keeping watch next to him, his eyes fixed upon the wall opposite him while his senses were extended outward to enclose the entire starship. The young man's understanding of the Living Force was tenuous at best, but he was more than prepared to handle guarding duty.

“Let’s head to the cockpit,” he suggested to his padawan.

Obi-Wan nodded at him, no doubt bored out of his mind at the current exercise and glad for a distraction. Ric Olié the pilot and Captain Panaka were both in the cockpit when they arrived. They nodded at him and moved to allow them better access to the viewport. Millions of stars and planets drifted by, each little more than pinpoints of light hundreds and thousands of parsecs away, a distance quite impossible to breach without a jump into hyperspace. Qui-Gon studied the constellations, and found that he could locate the Coruscant system. Not that it did anyone any good.

The ship continued gliding along, traversing through vacuum with fluid grace, albeit slowly. Soon, a yellow sphere came into view.

Obi-Wan leaned forward and pointed out at the planet. “That’s it. Tatooine.”

Four pairs of eyes watched as the planet drew closer, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. For Olié and Panaka, they were wrapped up in veils of purple, their thoughts shrouded with fear and uncertainty. Despite the Jedi’s reassurance, they held their reserves about bringing their Queen to a lawless planet ran by Hutts. Obi-Wan, on the other hand, was a neutral brown as he watched the planet draw closer. And no wonder, too. Neither Jedi could count the number of times they had traipsed over Hutt Space by now, either peacefully as friends or under the pursuit of blaster fire as enemies.

As they drew closer, Qui-Gon’s eyes began to make out the undulating terrain of the sand dunes punctuated by the rocky outcrops of mountain ranges. A smattering of isolated households were spread throughout the desert, surrounded by a forest of tiny, needle-like structures extending up to the planet’s atmosphere.

“Moisture evaporators,” said Obi-Wan, answering Panaka’s unasked question.

It was not hard to pick up on his curiosity — his head had swivelled around to track one of those structures as the ship sped past, eyes piqued with interest. Being from a planet blessed with a wealth of fresh water, no doubt he had never been exposed to a device made to harvest water from the planet’s atmosphere.

“There— A city,” said Ric Olié after a while, his keen pilot eyes picking up on the irregularity standing out in the midst of the ocean of sand before any of his associates did.

Qui-Gon squinted in the direction Ric indicated. Sure enough, as the cresting wave of sand riding on the wind settled, a cloister of blocks came into view. It blended well with its surroundings, made of building blocks the same colour as the sand from which it rose, each structure scattered about haphazardly like toys upon the floor of the room of a lazy child after play time, the messy layout of the settlement a puzzling sight to the occupants of the ship who hailed from a city with bedazzling buildings organised in blocks along the sides of broad streets.

“Fly lower and land somewhere in the outskirts. We don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves,” Qui-Gon instructed.

Ric Olié nodded and did as he bade, slowing the ship as he decreased their cruising altitude. More features came into view now — the smattering of shrivelled shrubs and cacti that made up the local fauna, the herd of migrating banthas crossing the dune sea, the sandcrawler creeping along a deep valley… Olié selected a relatively remote spot not too far from the city and landed the ship.

“Where are we?” asked Ric Olié, squinting at the top of the squat buildings that peeked just above the horizon.

It had been a few years since Qui-Gon visited Tatooine, though the way Jedi memory worked, things were never truly forgotten. Now, he employed the Jedi skills of recollection, matching the landscape that they’d passed with his memory of the planet. He could vaguely recognise their surroundings to be the Xelric Draw.

“That would be Mos Espa,” he said after a while.

From the blank looks he received from the two Nubians, there was no doubt that the name meant little to them. Panaka, Qui-Gon could understand. But Ric Olié too?

“What now?” asked Captain Panaka, looking at him.

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan exchanged glances. The Jedi master considered, then made a decision.

“How will you go about it?” asked Qui-Gon softly. He had to admit, despite himself, that it was hard relinquishing authority to another, yet he knew it needed to be done. When Obi-Wan passes his Trials, he would be a Knight all on his own, expected to make his own calls on missions. He would need to make mistakes, and learn to patch up his mistakes. Qui-Gon needed to let go of his urge to have everything done his way.

“We inspect the ship, determine the damages, procure the parts we need from the settlement and be on our merry way,” supplied Obi-Wan. He did not look at all happy at his own suggestion, but then, neither did Panaka nor Olié. “I suggest we go in disguise,” he added. “A Jedi strolling into town would attract too much attention. We'll split up. You keep watch over the Queen while I head to the city to buy the parts we need.”

Qui-Gon could tell that it was not a decision made out of arrogance or a need to be in the centre of action. Rather, Obi-Wan had deemed his master a better candidate to protect the Queen. Qui-Gon wasn’t sure if he was entirely fond of this self-doubt but decided that it did not matter. Without anyone to defer to, Obi-Wan would be more than capable of handling himself.

Obi-Wan was still thinking, working his jaws as if trying to masticate something terribly unsavoury. “I… should bring Jar Jar along. When two sentients of different species travelled together, it will be automatically assumed that we're just the regular pilots doing a layover for refuelling or repairs.”

It was a wise decision, and Qui-Gon was proud of Obi-Wan for having the courage to make the right decision despite not liking it.

Qui-Gon nodded his approval. “Go check on the ship, Obi-Wan. Take R2-D2 with you — he may be of some help. Captain, I think it is time we provide the Queen with an update of our plan.”

~

“Yousa wanna meesa to come with yousa? Nonono. Meesa ain't goin nowhere!” wailed Jar Jar, when the news was broke to him, his pedunculated eyes bulging with shock and fear.

Qui-Gon levelled the hapless Gungan a stern look. Fortunately, Jar Jar, for all his whining tendencies, knew to shut up and adhere to command when called for. He hung his head, eyes downcast, floppy ears drooping. For a moment, he looked so forlorn that Qui-Gon was tempted to spare him. It wouldn't exactly be a mercy, to be sure. Like as not, Jar Jar would be a source of trouble for them in the city and leaving him behind would spare Obi-Wan a lot of trouble. Then again, Obi-Wan was right — two different species walking together would attract less attention in a place like Mos Espa. It was a conclusion that Qui-Gon had come to himself as well.

“You will not be expected to do anything there, Jar Jar. We just need you there to help Obi-Wan blend in,” he assured the Gungan. “Just stick with Obi-Wan, keep your hands to yourself and you’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Okieday,” Jar Jar agreed with great reluctance. The purple cloud of fear clung to him like a second skin, yet there was no mistaking the bursts of determined pink that emerged then disappeared from him like a solar flare.

Qui-Gon folded his arms. The Gungan would have to do. He was a coward, but he was a coward with a big heart and a determination to help. That alone made him a better person than most. Nevertheless, his help was an unreliable thing, susceptible to the swings of his ever-fluctuating levels of confidence as the blades of grass on a field subjected to the direction of a finicky wind. Qui-Gon didn’t relish the idea of unleashing this particular sentient on his padawan. Still, it had been Obi-Wan’s idea, so Qui-Gon would go along with it.

He nodded once at Jar Jar and proceeded to make his way into the room where the Queen was in the midst of conversing with Panaka. Both looked up when the Jedi Master entered with a Gungan in tow.

“Captain Panaka had briefed me on your plans, Master Jedi,” said the Queen. “You are confident of this plan of yours?”

Well, it wasn’t _his_ plan, per se, but he had confidence in Obi-Wan. Or at least, his rational mind did. His heart, however, was having severe second thoughts about the entire thing and was determined to try racing into hyperspace. Distantly, he acknowledged that this anxiety he felt had nothing to do with any misperceived notion about Obi-Wan’s capability, but was much rather borne of the attachment he felt for his apprentice. Somehow, despite his constant reminders to himself to *let go*, he was still holding on, fearful of letting the young man out of his sight, unwilling to put him in danger.

*If you refuse to release him, you will only end up strangling him in a pot too small for his roots to continue growing.*

“The Force will be with us,” he said simply in lieu of a response.

Just then, the door to the audience chamber hissed open and Obi-Wan entered, followed closely behind by the little blue droid. He nodded at his master and came to a stop beside him before bowing to the Queen.

“The hyperdrive’s completely fried, I’m afraid, along with a score of other parts — nothing too hard to replace. It’s just the hyperdrive that I’m concerned about,” said Obi-Wan.

R2-D2 emitted a series of chirps and beeps, its indicator lights flashing. Everyone in the room exchanged looks — no one actually understood binary enough to understand what the excitable droid was trying to get at. The droid’s ensuing whine needed no translation.

“Artoo has the complete list,” said Obi-Wan, breaking the awkward silence. “With you leave, Your Highness, we will head out to the city.”

The Queen nodded her consent. “You will being Padmé along with you, of course,” she said.

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan exchanged glances. That was *not* according to plan.

“Surely having a girl travelling with you will go a long way to ease their trust,” said Panaka, noticing their hesitation.

“On civilised places like Coruscant, maybe. Here, anyone of the female gender travelling through will be treated as a prey. I cannot guarantee your handmaiden's safety if she went into Mos Espa with me,” Obi-Wan protested.

“You will find, Master Jedi, that I am perfectly capable of protecting myself,” Padmé assured him, patting her hand on a blaster pistol strapped to her waist.

A tall claim, considering that the idea of sending Obi-Wan out with Jar Jar was already setting Qui-Gon's nerves on the edge. Sending one more young girl out into danger? No will do.

“You will have to trust our judgement in this, Your Highness,” Qui-Gon insisted, deliberately turning his back on Padmé to face the decoy Queen. He sensed Padmé bristle. Aha. So she _was_ the Queen.

“I must insist on the matter, Master Jedi,” said the Queen in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

Qui-Gon ran his mind over the situation, trying to formulate a new plan. Obi-Wan turned to him.

“Perhaps, if both of us went along…”

Ah, that’s right. He was supposed to be letting Obi-Wan take the lead in this mission. He exhaled slowly, releasing his frustration into the Force. He did not think it was a good idea to have both of them together, but it was Obi-Wan's call. If he opposed Obi-Wan in this, then there was no point to the entire exercise. Still, there was a difference between objecting outright, and providing advise.

“That will leave the Queen and the ship unguarded,” he pointed out.

“Hardly. Captain Panaka will remain onboard, as will I. Rest be assured, Master Jedi, that I have no intention of drawing attention to myself. What Master Kenobi suggested sounds like an acceptable compromise,” said the Queen quickly, no doubt eager to deploy all the protection she could afford to the real queen she was meant to protect.

Padmé glowered, unhappy at the prospect of leaving her decoy without Jedi protection but unable to counter the decision her decoy had made using the name of the Queen without giving herself away. It seemed that stories about the Queen’s compassion was as well-deserved as that of her courage and determination. That gave a new depth to this young Queen.

Obi-Wan was still looking at him, question in his eyes. Qui-Gon felt frustration mounting within him. For Obi-Wan, this was a matter of trust. He could continue to oppose Obi-Wan's plan in front of the Queen and her retinue, and in doing so crush what little confidence the young man had in himself; or he could relent, preserve Obi-Wan's confidence, and risk the ship coming under attack. Which was it? What should he do? If it was his master, Dooku would not hesitate do what he felt was right.

That last thought gave Qui-Gon pause.

What he _felt_ was right.

His instincts could be wrong. And besides, Padmé _was_ the Queen. Their duty, once negotiations with the Neimodians fell through, was first and foremost to protect the Queen. Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, letting the frustration within him uncoil.

“We will go together,” he relented.

* * *

 

As it turned out, the Queen had, along with a host of other elaborate gowns and embellished headdresses, several civilian clothings on hand. Qui-Gon kept on a straight face and fought hard not to make comment of the matter as the handmaiden Eirtaé rummaged through the chest for a simple farmer garb that would fit Padmé. It did not escape Qui-Gon’s attention how all the handmaidens were of similar sizes. No doubt the Queen used body doubles rather frequently while she sneaked out in disguise to mingle with her people.

On their part, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had eschewed their tabards and cloak in exchange for a simple farmer’s poncho worn over their existing tunic. They weren’t exactly spoilt for choice when it came to disguises, considering neither men could fit into any of the Queen’s clothes and they couldn’t exactly show up wearing the uniform of a security guard working for a Republican world. Hopefully, the people around these parts would be unfamiliar enough with the Jedi to not recognise the distinct weave of their tunic. Obi-Wan borrowed an undyed scarf to be worn around his head like a turban for the purpose of concealing his very conspicuous padawan braid.

Jar Jar, at the very least, needed no disguise and the astromech droid was a familiar enough sight among spaceports.

Once they were done in the apparels department, the team of five exited the ship and began heading for the city.

It was a short walk, not two klicks away, yet by the time they arrived at the city, all four organic sentients were drenched in sweat, their skin red from being scorched under the twin suns. The hot and dry air was perhaps exceptionally harsh on Jar Jar, who was used to cool and moist habitats. Sure enough, the Gungan’s footsteps were beginning to lag, though he pushed forward valiantly, determined not to hold his friends back. R2-D2 rolled along behind them, looking as displeased as a droid without any form of facial expression could, spitting sand from its internal compartments every now and then.

Where Coruscant was a city of towering skyscrapers and Naboo one of resplendent glamour, Mos Espa was a down-to-earth settlement in the very literal sense of the word, being made up of sprawling single-storey buildings built from synstone, a material made of crushed local rocks strengthened with chemical solvents. Several buildings existed only as a small dome above ground, with stairs leading underground to where the rest of the establishment resided in the relative cool of the basement. Here and there, ventilation shafts poked out from the ground, allowing the hot air that had built up underground to escape the closed confines through convection currents.

The city itself was populated by riff-raffs that hailed from all corners of the world, indulging in intoxicants or a game of dice in outdoor eateries sheltered under makeshift canopies, suffusing the air with the murky green goop of jealousy and greed as alleged friends tried to back-stab each other for a quick profit. Traversing in the midst of all the wily felons and cutthroats were hoards of diminutive sentients clad in threadbare clothes, travelling with their heads bowed and shoulders hunched, leaving behind trails of fearful purple as they shuffled along.

Slaves. Qui-Gon studied them momentarily before tearing his attention away.

As they crossed a street, the passed-by a trader riding on an eopie. Qui-Gon and Padmé neatly side-stepped the steaming pile of drek the eopie left behind, though Jar Jar who was busy gawking at everything missed the pile and threaded right into the centre of the massive mound. R2-D2 bleeped in disapproval at him as it rolled past. The ping of annoyance Qui-Gon felt through their bond told him that it was all Obi-Wan could do to resist applying his palm to his forehead at their companion’s clumsiness, which was certainly on a whole new level of its own. The young man bringing up the rear grabbed Jar Jar by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out of leaping into the way of a Trandoshan riding past on a lumbering bantha.

If truly the Gungan gods demanded that they owe a life of servitude to those who saved them, then Jar Jar would probably need to spend several lifetimes in service to others.

Qui-Gon paused, allowing the two lagging behind to catch up.

“Let’s try one of the smaller dealer first,” he said, before remembering that he was supposed to let Obi-Wan lead. He clamped his mouth shut and suppressed a scowl.

Obi-Wan gave him a curious look, but then decided not to pursue the matter and turned his mind back to the task at hand, casting about to look around them. Qui-Gon felt the Force building up around them in cresting waves and understood that Obi-Wan was drawing in on the Force for guidance. The waves crashed and dissipated.

“That way,” his padawan said, leading the way towards one with an attached compound heaped high with old transports and parts.

This time, Qui-Gon trailed after behind, keeping an eye on Jar Jar to make sure that he didn’t wander off elsewhere and go missing. He ducked to pass through the shop’s low entry. As he did so, a wave of cool air greeted his face, a welcome after the scorching heat. Inside, the shop was cluttered with more parts and junk, though it was an organised sort of clutter, as if someone had taken great care to arrange them according to some internalised algorithm.

Obi-Wan was engaged with the Toydarian owner, enduring the barrage of Huttese expletives that the shop owner seemed to find need to instill in every other word despite the amicable tone of his voice suggesting that he had no intention of causing offence.

Both Padmé and Jar Jar did not look like they understood a word, but where Padmé wore a look of polite attention, Jar Jar looked openly confused. Bored, he started wondering off to inspect the items on display. Qui-Gon grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away from the display shelves — he was not interested in having to pay compensation for whatever goods the Gungan broke.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Jar Jar,” he hissed.

“We are in need of parts for a J-type 327 Nubian,” said Obi-Wan with a strong Mandalorian accent, speaking to the store owner.

It was a detail that Qui-Gon had completely overlooked and was glad his padawan had paid attention to. Obi-Wan’s prim and proper Coruscanti accent would never fool anyone into believing that he was a mere farmer.

“Ah, Nubian, eh?” said the Toydarian with a chuckle, switching to heavily-accented Basic to match his customers’. “Ah, yes. I have plenty of Nubian parts around here. Shall we head out back to have a look?”

“My droid has a list of all the parts we require,” said Obi-Wan, gesturing towards R2-D2. The droid bleeped in agreement and rolled forward.

“Ah, yes. Most certainly.” All of a sudden, the Toydarian spun around, wings beating furiously. He hollered loudly in Huttese, summoning his slave to come look after the shop.

A few short seconds later, a young boy no more than ten appeared. He was covered in grime and sand that clung to his skin in a paste of sweat and grease, and answered his master’s accusation of slowness with great indignation. He climbed up onto the counter with the agility of one used to doing it all the time. Qui-Gon watched him with interest, noting that for a boy this young, he did not appear to be afraid of either his master or the strangers. Rather, he studied each one of them curiously, his eyes lingering a little longer on Padmé than he did the rest.

“Please, this way,” said the Toydarian.

Obi-Wan followed along. Qui-Gon lingered behind, which earned him a curious probe from his padawan.

_~Master?~_

_~Go on ahead. I’ll keep an eye here.~_

Obi-Wan continued to converse with the Toydarian, showing no hint of having been distracted. Jar Jar had begun inching towards a stack of deactivated frog droids in his lapse in concentration. Qui-Gon harrumphed, drawing Jar Jar’s attention back to himself. He shot him a loaded look. The Gungan sighed and backed away.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Jar Jar,” he repeated sternly. “Stay out of trouble.” It was fortunate, he mused, that he had come along. Otherwise, Jar Jar might prove to be a menace all of his own.

“—a slave?” asked Padmé, sounding terribly horrified.

“I am a person, and my name is Anakin,” said the boy. The Force flared a bright red, lighting up the entire shop.

Qui-Gon turned to regard the boy with interest. He was clearly Force-sensitive, and a very strong one at that. It was a pity that he was born out here on Tatooine rather than on a Core World planet where his talent would have been picked up early on. There was no doubt that Anakin would have been welcomed to receive training at the Jedi Temple, provided his parents consented to it. Now, however, even if Qui-Gon had somehow managed to free him from slavery, the Council would deem him too old to be trained.

Which was just as well, considering the amount of anger he had in him. This one was susceptible to falling, and if he fell, there was no telling what sort of havoc he would wreak on the galaxy. Still, Qui-Gon couldn't help but lament at the waste.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… Everything’s so strange to me,” said Padmé, hastily covering up her blunder.

Just like that, the red vanished, replaced by a brilliant yellow.

Quick to anger, but quick to forgive, too. Mercurial. Unpredictable.

Qui-Gon reached out and grabbed Jar Jar by one of his ears without bothering to look, stopping him from picking up something else from a pile. This entire exercise was really starting to grate on his nerves.

“Who’s that?” asked Anakin, turning to Jar Jar and Qui-Gon.

“The tall one is Jar Jar Binks — he’s a Gungan, a native of Naboo. The shorter one is Qui-Gon,” said Padmé.

It was quite the novel experience to be introduced as being the shorter of a pair.

Beside him, Jar Jar smiled and gave Anakin a small wave, pulling away from Qui-Gon. Anakin smiled and waved back.

“Are all of you travelling together?” asked Anakin. “That's so wizard! Where do you come from?”

At that, Padmé looked up at Qui-Gon, no doubt wondering if there was supposed to be a detailed background story for each of their persona.

“We just happen to be headed towards the same destination,” Qui-Gon supplied. “My friend—” he jerked his chin at the exit through which the Toydarian had led Obi-Wan through, “—and I are on the way to Coruscant for some business. Padmé tagged along because she’s headed for the same place. Jar Jar…” Qui-Gon regarded the Gungan and scratched his chin in contemplation. “Is complicated. He was exiled from his people and didn’t have anywhere to go, so we took him along with us.”

“Wow.” The last bit seemed to have fascinated the boy, who had all but forgotten that he asked two questions. “Have you been to Coruscant?”

Qui-Gon smiled wistfully. “It’s the beating heart of the Republic — it can be a wonderful place or a terribly claustrophobic fortress of steel, depending on one’s point of view.”

Padmé was giving him an appraising look. Clearly, unlike the boy, she had caught on to the way Qui-Gon had dodged all of Anakin’s questions without committing to an answer.

 _A politician indeed_ , Qui-Gon mused.

“One day, I’ll fly on a starfighter and see Coruscant for myself,” Anakin declared with great confidence, radiating the same yellow-orange hue that Padmé possessed, though infinitely brighter by virtue of his Force-sensitivity.

The wasted potential gnawed at Qui-Gon’s conscience, urging him to adopt another ‘stray’, as his padawan called them. He found that he had to remind himself of the boy's mercurial nature.

_Don't get distracted. Focus._

A loud clang coming from the side of the shop alerted everyone that during the Jedi Master’s lapse of attention, Jar Jar had somehow sneaked off and activated one of the frog droids. The Gungan chased after it, running around the tiny interior of the shop, knocking over hoards of other stuff. Qui-Gon cringed internally. At any rate, one stray was more than enough for the occasion.

“Hey,” cried Anakin. “Hit the—”

The droid passed-by Qui-Gon, who immediately struck it on the nose. Instantly, the droid folded in upon itself and went back into hibernation mode.

“—nose,” finished Anakin. He peered at Qui-Gon and rubbed his own nose. “You’re fast,” he observed.

That was too canny an observation, and it unsettled Qui-Gon.

“One have to, if one wishes to be a pilot.” He reached out and plucked the cylindrical body of a power pack out of Jar Jar’s hands, returning it to the shelf before reassuming his position in the corner.

It must have been the right thing to say, because Anakin beamed immediately and said, “I’m a pilot. I drive for Watto in the pod races.”

Now _that_ was something. Qui-Gon remembered the first pod race he’d ever seen as a padawan alongside his master on the planet of Malastare. It was a deadly race, the vehicles speeding past at speeds faster than sound. It wasn’t an activity humans participated in — pod racing was, as a rule, an activity for species that came equipped with multiple limbs and spindly, flexible bodies. That Anakin was capable of flying in one and lived to tell the day was further confirmation of his strong affinity to the Force.

“That’s amazing,” said Qui-Gon simply.

Anakin beamed at him, a tiny ball of sunshine blazing in the middle of dingy shop.

A faint buzzing cut through his thoughts, a tug from Obi-Wan on their training bond. This far apart, he couldn't make out much beyond the sense of his presence being required.

“Now, if you will please excuse me, I’d like to go find out what’s taking my friend so long. Padmé, do help watch over our amphibious friend.” He unfolded himself from the shadow he was standing in and headed out back, bracing himself for the merciless beating of the planet’s twin suns.

Watto and Obi-Wan were standing in a narrow walkway between two mounds of machine parts. As he approached, he could pick up snatches of conversation and realised that they were engaged in some sort of debate, with Watto raising his voice higher and higher while Obi-Wan’s tone became frostier and frostier. To the side, the astromech droid’s dome-shaped head spiralled back and forth between the two, emitting distressed bleeps that no one seemed interested to listen to.

“Well, Obi-Wan, that’s taken long enough,” said Qui-Gon, interrupting them midsentence. He crossed his arms and affected an impatient stance. “If the parts we need can’t be found here, we should try our luck at the next one. No sense in burning daylight.”

Toydarian and man both turned to him, looking equally dissatisfied with the entire exchange. The droid bleeped cheerfully, relieved for the exchange to have been interrupted before it escalated any further.

“On the contrary, Qui-Gon, Watto here has all the parts we need,” Obi-Wan clarified. “It appears we just do not possess the currency they trade in.”

Ah, yes. The quirk of trading in Hutt-controlled world.

“They would be requiring wupiupi, I surmise?” he asked, glancing between Obi-Wan and Watto.

“Yes.”

There was a great deal of annoyance surrounding this known fact, so there had to be something more. Before he could press the issue, Watto had spoken up.

“Ay, your young friend here has offered me Republic credits! I do not trade in Republic Credits,” said Watto. He rubbed his hands together, fluttering wings dissipating clear waves of greed around himself. “Say, maybe you happen to have money?”

_~Mind tricks does not seem to work on Toydarians, master.~_

Qui-Gon considered this.

“How much does all of the parts cost in total?” he asked.

“Thirty thousand Wupiupi,” said Obi-Wan with a scowl. The expression on his face made it obvious that he thought it was daylight robbery.

“A small price for such wanted parts, to be sure! And you won’t find another Nubian hyperdrive on this entire planet, I guarantee you that!”

Qui-Gon didn’t actually doubt that boast. Nubian ships were of a particular make that made them unsuited for being fitted with parts manufactured by other shipyards, unlike those that came out of Corellia or Kuat or most any of the other major starship manufacturer that used a sort of galactic standard that allowed their parts to be interchangeable. As a result, they weren’t highly popular outside of Naboo, and Naboo itself wasn’t a planet known for prolific space travels. In fact, he was impressed they managed to find one at all.

“We have twenty thousand Dataries,” Qui-Gon pointed out. He raised his hand placatingly. “No, no, hear me out. I know for a fact that people here _do_ trade with Republic credits. If memory serves, the exchange rate is 5 Dataries for 8 Wupiupi. All in all, you still make a gain of two thousand extra Wupiupi. How does that sound to you?”

The Toydarian spat and flew right up to his face, blasting jets of malodorous body odour and halitosis in his face with his flapping wings.

“Bantha Poodoo is what it sounds like,” he spat. “I’ve said it: No credits, no parts, no deal! Now stop wasting my time!” He zipped away from Qui-Gon with a dexterity that one would not normally associate with such a bulbous creature and turned to Obi-Wan, stabbing him in he chest. “And you, next time try to actually _be_ a Jedi before trying to act like one!”

Muttering under his breath, he ushered the two men out of the compound back into the shop. Getting out of the heat was a consolation after the spectacular debacle, and Qui-Gon took whatever comfort he could have in that. Back inside the shop, he found Jar Jar in the midst of straightening the final piece of equipment that the frog droid from earlier had upturned. He stepped back hurriedly at the sight of the two men’s return, an unhappy Toydarian flapping away doggedly at their heels, and would have backed straight into the opposite shelf if Padmé had not stepped forward and executed a timely intervention guiding him away.

“There’s nothing more to be done here. We’re leaving,” announced Qui-Gon as he marched back out into the accursed heat.


	10. Mos Espa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive!!! I'm so sorry for going MIA for so long. At first I was crazy busy. Then I got caught up in another fandom (anyone else watched the Grand Master of Demonic Cultivation / Mo Dao Zu Shi?) and was distracted for a while xD Anyhow, here's the next chapter! Thank you all of you for your patience.

As far as missions go, this one wasn't terribly promising. Things were going more and more awry by the second, the failure remarkable only in that it was no remarkable at all. At least, not in the way their previous missions tended to fail, in a showy display of blaster fire hot in pursuit. Obi-Wan knew, rationally, that he should be glad that such a grandiose display did not actually take place, yet their lack of any sort of progress at all was setting his nerves on the edge.

There was something about this entire mission that didn’t sit well with him. Somewhere, out there, traversing across the dark, chilly depths of hyperspace, a greater evil was lurking, drawing closer by the second. He felt a deep-rooted urgency to get out of Tatooine and be on their way, but they could hardly crawl along space on a sublight drive — at that kind of speed, it would be Padmé’s grandchildren that arrived at Coruscant to plead for a planet that was long destroyed.

The sun, of course, did nothing to assuage his frustrations and only served to speed up the spark traversing down his fuse. Fortunately, he had an exceptionally long fuse thanks to years of Jedi training, and was unlikely to actually explode quite just yet.

“I suggest we split up,” said Obi-Wan. “Try searching other places for the parts we need, and barring that, methods of obtaining the coins we need.” He didn’t believe they will find them elsewhere but there was always hope they might be able to find the smaller parts from traders more receptive to Republic credits, which meant they needed to shore up less Wupiupi to trade with Watto.

Qui-Gon nodded. “That would speed things up.” He glanced at Jar Jar. “I will go with Jar Jar and the droid. You go with Padmé.” He checked his chrono and matched it against the position of the twin suns in the sky. “Let’s meet up again here in six standard hours.” They needed time to get back to the starship before nightfall.

“I’ll take the west half of the city, you take the east,” said Obi-Wan.

With that, they broke up.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan had no idea why he had to be saddled with the handmaiden of all people. Then again, at least his master didn’t assign him to babysit Jar Jar. The droid, he didn't mind, but it made sense that Qui-Gon would go with Artoo, considering Obi-Wan knew what parts they needed while Qui-Gon didn't. Out of the corner of his eyes, he kept track of the girl. She had held up fairly well so far, weathering the scorching heat and sand with grim determination, exhibiting none of the daintiness that usually came from one born with a silver spoon — and she was definitely born with a silver spoon, what with her exaggerated prudishness that rivalled Obi-Wan's own back during his teenage years. Obi-Wan thought, perhaps, that he was finally getting a taste of his own medicine and knew what his master felt when lugging him around.

He turned his attention skyward, studying the position of the twin suns against the endless blue firmament. They had spent the entire afternoon trudging over the city, seeking the required parts from other dealers and, failing that, currency exchange but had been turned down by every settlement they visited. In a moment of sheer desperation, he had even attempted to seek employment in exchange for the local currency. It quickly became apparent that the store owners around these parts preferred employing slave labour over piecework. The only sort of work they could find, apart from outright selling themselves into slavery, was indentured work which was just one step away. Obi-Wan wasn't desperate enough to try that just yet, so he persisted, hopping from shop to shop.

Still, as the day wore on, he couldn't help but notice Padmé falling further and further behind, needing to break into a jog more frequently to keep up. He suddenly got reminded of himself jogging to catch up with Qui-Gon, running out of breath faster because he took more steps to travel any given distance than did the Jedi Master. By the time he started falling back this much, he would be at the point where he wished fervently that his master would suggest that they take a break. Surely it must be the same for Padmé as it was for him.

Now that his mind had taken a momentary break from focusing on their task, he realised that he was Sith-damned tired and thirsty himself. Perseverance was one thing, foolhardiness was another. A short break was certainly warranted at this point, unless they intended to walk until one of them collapsed from exhaustion or a heat stroke.

Obi-Wan slowed, allowing Padmé to catch up. He thought guiltily that he really should have done so earlier — _would_  have done so earlier if he wasn't so single-mindedly focused on their task.

Qui-Gon would be so proud that he wasn't letting his bad feelings get in the way for once.

Or he would be shaking his head in disappointment at his blatant oversight of his mission partner's woes.

With Qui-Gon, it was hard to tell which way he would swing. Still, both weren't mutually exclusive, so maybe he'd get both.

“Let us seek refreshments,” said Obi-Wan.

Rather than exhibit signs of relief at the suggested break, Padmé scowled at the interruption to their mission. For a moment, Obi-Wan thought she was about to argue, and wanted to kick himself for ending up being hated for trying to do something good. To his surprise, Padmé acquiesced to his suggestion after her initial display of displeasure, sensible enough to recognise good judgement when she saw it.

As with Watto, none of the establishments were willing to accept Republic credits as payment, with some turning hostile as soon as the sight of a credit chip came into view. In the end, Obi-Wan was forced to employ a subtle mind trick on an unsuspecting Ithorian bartender at a rowdy cantina to accept ten Republic credits in exchange for two ruby bliels — a gross over-payment, to be sure, but he could not quite stand the glare of righteous indignation Padmé was giving him for tricking the Ithorian into accepting a currency he would otherwise refuse.

He found themselves a booth at a quiet corner of the cantina — quiet being relative as the loud music blaring over the speakers could probably be heard from across half of Mos Espa had it been built above ground, discordant notes setting his teeth on edge. The table was caked with years of grease and pockmarked with stab wounds, the cushions of the seats sunken and peppered with a conglomeration of burn marks from cigarra of various make, revealing the stuffing within that was rife with some sort of fungus. Obi-Wan took the more horrifying seat, leaving the better one to Padmé. She gaped at it with poorly-concealed horror. Something about the entire set up reminded him of himself during his first visit to Didi’s café. It was certainly refreshing, revisiting the situation in reverse position.

Force, was he this obvious in his disdain for the dilapidated establishment? Why Didi hadn't tossed him straight out was beyond him.

Well, actually that probably had something to do with Didi being a good person and Qui-Gon being Didi's friend and Obi-Wan's master. You didn't greet your friend by throwing his apprentice out of your café.

Obi-Wan planted the second glass of red gooey substance on the table in front of the seat Padmé was staring at.

“Take a seat, Padmé. You’re attracting unwanted attention,” he advised calmly.

Appealing to sensibility worked just as well as planned, and Padmé quietly slid into seat, perching at the cleanest edge she could find. It looked to Obi-Wan that she was expanding more energy keeping up the semblance of sitting than standing but he kept his peace. Either she would grow tired and learn to relax eventually, or she actually had the strength left in her gluteus, hamstrings and quadriceps to maintain that pose for as long as they were in the cantina, in which case Obi-Wan decided that how she chose to rest was entirely up to her.

He sipped at the drink, watching in silence as his companion jabbed at her drink with the straw petulantly, oozing frustration from every pore. No doubt she was worried about the situation on Naboo and growing frustrated with every passing second. He wondered what Qui-Gon would do in this situation. His master had always been better at reading emotions than he was. Better at saying the right things to encourage a person too. He could probably try, but given Padmé's foul mood, he thought she was one word away from stabbing his eyes with her straw. Silence, he'd learnt, was often just as powerful a tool as words.

He turned his attention elsewhere, studying the local clientele out of the corners of his eyes, picking up on bits and pieces of conversation. Mostly, conversations revolved around betting for an upcoming race. A major event known as the Boontha Eve Classics that had people from all over Tatooine travelling to Mos Espa for the day. A racer named Sebulba was mentioned a lot, usually along exceedingly favourable odds. Apparently, he was the defending champion and the favourite to win in the upcoming race. At the opposite corner of the cantina, two Rhodians and a Weequay were engaged in a game of sabacc. As he watched, one of the Rhodians quietly slipped a card onto his leg and replaced it with a card from his sleeve. Obi-Wan drew his straw to his lips, concealing his mirth with his hand. It was only a matter of time before the Rhodian was caught — even Obi-Wan was better at cheating than that, and Obi-Wan was a hopeless cheater, to hear Qui-Gon say it.

“I just don’t understand how you can be so kriffing calm about this whole thing,” hissed Padmé from across the table, coals of anger glowing with simmering heat. She shimmied in her seat at last, sliding further back so that the chair was taking more of her weight than her fatigued muscles.

Obi-Wan shot her a questioning look.

“Would getting angry help us any?” he asked. It was absolutely the wrong thing to say, and he regretted it almost instantly. That was the sort of response you gave to a petulant Jedi youngling to force him to reflect and think. Outsiders, he'd found, tended not to view questions as guides to improve one's understanding and focus, but rather as challenges.

Sure enough, the coals burst into flames. “No, but it looks to me as if you are perfectly fine with all the slavery on this planet!” she retorted, livid.

Her outpour was drowned out partially by the sound of the Weequay slamming a vibroshiv down on the tabletop, calling the Rhodian out for cheating. Obi-Wan kept an eye out on the squabble to be sure that it doesn’t spread to them.

“Oh, I’m not happy with slavery, to be sure. But there’s nothing I can do about it. We are here for a very specific mission and freeing slaves isn’t it,” he pointed out, puzzled. Where did that come from? He'd thought she was angry about them taking a break when every passing second could mean more Nubians dying. This attack on his lack of concern for the slaves came from an altogether unexpected angle and caught him completely off-guard.

The cheating Rhodian stood up and started shouting something in heavily accented Huttese, though it was hard to make out the exact words amidst the din.

“You’re indulging in an exorbitant drink in a local cantina that uses slaves!” snapped Padmé, oblivious to the fighting happening to a side behind her. “How is this not supporting slavery?”

“Does our dying of dehydration help free the slaves? Also, just so you know, this is actually an inexpensive local drink. We’re just paying an exorbitant amount to make up for the currency exchange. But as you so judiciously pointed out, yes, this is rather a lot to be paying for a glass of non-alcoholic drink on this side of the Rim, so I’d advice you to drink up and not waste it as you seem so keen on doing. Many of the locals can hardly afford one!” Obi-Wan was surprised at the poorly-concealed barbs within his own response and turned his attention inwards, reflecting on his own mental state. It seemed like he had allowed exhaustion and frustration to get the better of him, and the toxic atmosphere in their surroundings did little to assuage _his_  own foul mood.

Obi-Wan back pedalled before Padmé had time to finish inhaling for her riposte. “I’m sorry. That was said in mean-spirit and uncalled for. However, I must stand by my point,” said Obi-Wan. “We have a mission to carry out, and we will focus our energy and attention on doing exactly that. Don’t allow yourself to get distracted, Padmé.”

Padmé scowled. “Do you even know what you’re saying? You’re telling me to turn a blind eye to all the sufferings happening here! You're quite possibly the biggest jerk I've ever seen!”

“Bigger than Nute Gunray?” asked Obi-Wan, nonplussed.

Padmé refused to be sidetracked. “Yes! At least he makes no apologies for being a jerk,” she snapped.

“Then I humbly retract my apology,” replied Obi-Wan, feeling equally frustrated. He raked his head for some Qui-Gonly advice on how to handle a raging female but came up blank. He wasn’t entirely sure how it came to be that he had so many gaping holes in his education that he didn’t know where to begin rectifying it.

The Weequay threw a bottle at the Rhodian, who ducked it. The bottle soared through the air and struck the back of the head of a Duros. He stood up at once, his companions along with him. A Mandalorian bounty hunter nursing a glass of Tatooine Sunburn two booths away looked like he was two shouts away from losing his cool.

“Finish your drink,” he told Padmé. Eschewing the straw, he grabbed his glass and downed his drink in one go.

“Why?” asked Padmé, frowning.

Obi-Wan ducked and a glass soared past the place where his nose had been a second ago.

“Because I’m not interested in getting caught up in fights that does not concern me!” he hissed.

Padmé shot a look in the direction Obi-Wan was looking and analysed the situation quickly. She hurriedly downed her drink and exited the booth. They were at the door when the sound of a blaster shot drowned out the noise in the cantina briefly.

“Shouldn’t we do something to help?” asked Padmé as Obi-Wan guided her firmly out of the establishment with a hand on her back. “People are going to die in a blaster fight.”

Obi-Wan shot her an incredulous look. “And do what? Offer ourselves up as collaterals? I think not.”

Padmé came to a stop and whirled around to face him. Still caught up in putting as much distance as possible between them and the escalating brawl, Obi-Wan failed to stop in time and walked straight into her. He emitted a soft “oof” of surprise and righted himself with lightning-fast reflexes. His hand shot out and he caught Padmé by the arm before she fell over. For one split second, they stood close together, almost pressing up against each other. She pulled herself away immediately, as if he was a contagious disease.

“Why are you Jedi so adamant about not helping people?” asked Padmé vehemently.

It seemed to him that the best course was to allow Padmé to vent out her frustrations. Otherwise, it would only fester and turn toxic, poisoning its host. “Why do you think I’m here on this Force-forsaken planet instead of back in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant?”

“Because this is your mission mandate!” she snapped. “It's your job, isn't it? The embodiment of compassion, upholding peace and justice and all that?”

“No. Our mission is to negotiate with the Trade Federation to remove the blockade on Naboo. If my master and I were only interested in doing what our mission requires of us, we would have been on our way back to Coruscant to report on the latest developments as soon as things went badly for us. Instead, we sneaked aboard a Trade Federation transport ship to reach Naboo, risked being shot at by hundreds of battle droids and braved the dangers of the Nubian core all just to save your Queen and bring her to the Galactic Senate. We’re putting our lives at risk here to help your people, so why don’t you stop for a moment and really think about why you’re angry before we proceed? We’re not your enemies, Padmé.”

To her credit, Padmé actually did shut up, though whether or not she exercised her thinking cap was a different matter altogether. Obi-Wan adjusted the turban on his head and resumed walking, sending subtle hints in the Force for the people around them to ignore them. All around, slaves that had stopped to observe the two arguing went back to work, minds ingrained to taking orders without question.

 

* * *

 

Padmé watched in sullen silence as Obi-Wan conversed with the Zygerrian shopkeeper in Huttese. Judging from the way the feline was shaking her head, Padmé could already tell the result.

A buzzing at her side alerted her that she was receiving an incoming comm. She cast a look at Obi-Wan, checking to be sure that he was still in deep conversation and ducked out of the shop, heading straight for a shadowed alley between two buildings leaning closely together.

She answered the comm. The voice that came over the comlink was heavily interrupted by static but Padmé would recognise Sabé's voice anytime.

“Padmé.” The voice was cool and slightly aloof, a perfect impersonation of the royal persona Padmé donned before the people of Naboo. “Is Master Jinn with you?”

“No,” she replied hurriedly. She knew that was her double’s way of checking to see if she was alone rather than actually asking for Qui-Gon. That meant she had something private and urgent to discuss. Just then, Obi-Wan stepped out of the shop into the sun. He paused for a moment, then turned to look straight at her, as if he was able to detect her presence. When he noticed the comlink in her hand, he maintained a polite distance, yet not so far that he couldn't hear what was being discussed. The useless show of chivalry irked Padmé more than if he had just walked right up to her and listened in blatantly. Padmé bit down the flare of frustration she felt. “But Master Kenobi is here with me, Your Highness.” Padmé fought to keep the frustration out of her voice.

Upon hearing his own name, Obi-Wan walked right up to her, mistakenly assuming that he was needed.

The pause on Sabé’s end was remarkable in its duration. No doubt it was a matter of great urgency and Sabé was weighing out the pros and cons of getting external parties involved in their internal affairs. “He will have to do. Pass him on the line.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

It took all of Padmé's self-restraint to relinquish her comlink over to the Jedi.

The Jedi received the comlink with a curt nod.

“Kenobi,” said Obi-Wan. He retreated further back into the alley to keep away from stray ears.

“Master Kenobi,” Sabé greeted coolly. “We have received word from Sio Bibble. We are informed that the Trade Federation has launched a full-scale assault on Naboo. He wishes to ask us for advise on how to proceed.”

“It is a trap,” said Obi-Wan at once. “Do not respond to the communications.”

“Master Kenobi, I don’t think you understand the situation here. My people are dying,” Sabé pressed. Padmé could hear the slight waver in her voice and knew that there was more to the message that was received. Whatever it was, the situation was dire.

“The moment you respond to their comm, they will be able to track us. We cannot risk it,” Obi-Wan insisted, adjusting the turban on his head with one hand.

Padmé just about had it with all the inaction the Jedi were intent upon engaging in. “But what if people are really dying?” she hissed at him. “Shouldn’t we at least try to find out? _I_  would want to find out.”

Obi-Wan shot her a sideway look and spoke into the comm. “Trust me on this, Your Highness. Sio Bibble is an experienced governor. He _will_  know what to do, with or without your advice. This is clearly a trap set up by the Trade Federation.”

There was a pregnant pause as Sabé processed his words. “I will do as you advise, Master Kenobi. I pray that you are not wrong in this,” said Sabé coolly.

“I pray the same. May the Force be with you, Your Highness. Kenobi out.” Obi-Wan’s steel blue eyes turned to look at Padmé and for a moment, it seemed as if he could see right through her.

Padmé forced herself to look back without flinching, daring him to admonish her or anything of that sort.

“Don’t go running around on your own,” Obi-Wan told her instead, sighing. “I can’t keep you safe if I can’t see you.”

Padmé jutted her chin out at him. “I can take care of myself, thank you.” Jedi or no, Obi-Wan was the same as every men she’d met, always so eager to assume that she was some damsel-in-distress that required rescuing. All of them quickly learnt that they were wrong and Obi-Wan would be no different.

She stalked out of the alley and nearly collided into a man dressed in a black cloak walking past.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised, stepping back to take a better look at him.

The man was a Kiffar, jet black hair hanging from his head in greasy dreadlocks, the tan skin of his face split into two by a horizontal stripe of yellow running across his nasal bridge from ear to ear.

The man leered at her, running his eyes down the length of her body lecherously, eyeing her like a predator would an easy prey. Her hand dropped to the blaster pistol at her side immediately, prepared to attack if it came down to it. A presence enveloped her from behind and a hand rested over hers, stopping her from drawing her weapon.

“Don’t,” whispered Obi-Wan, his breath warm on the back of her neck.

Padmé shifted, discomfited from Obi-Wan’s proximity to her.

The man raised his eyes from Padmé to look at Obi-Wan, taking a moment to size him up. Obi-Wan held his gaze, unflinching. A lascivious smile appeared on the Kiffar's face and he flipped the bird at Obi-Wan before continuing on his merry way. Obi-Wan released her and stepped back.

Padmé pulled away and rounded on him at once.

“Why did you stop me?” she demanded.

“We didn’t come here to cause trouble,” said Obi-Wan, staring after the man. “Besides, he won’t be a trouble to anyone.”

“What do you mean? Were you even watching? Did you see that look on his face? That’s the look of someone who thinks woman are born solely to serve a man’s pleasure! If we let him go, it’ll be a matter of time before someone else falls prey to him.”

“And yet you remain unharmed.” Obi-Wan tore his eyes away from the man and looked at Padmé. “It will not do to draw needless attention to ourselves.”

Padmé gritted her teeth in frustration, irked by all the inaction the Jedi were so keen on being involved in. Truly, she didn't know how such a selfish man could exist in the galaxy, let alone call himself a jedi.

 

* * *

 

Qui-Gon studied the advertiscreen featuring wanted criminals all over the galaxy in silence, memorising the faces of each for the rare chance that he might actually encounter on in Mos Espa. If the High Council knew that a practitioner of the Force had stooped so low as to gain employment as a bounty hunter, no doubt they would have a fit. Or rather, Mace would have a fit while Yoda would deliver some cryptic advise that left one wondering if what they did was right or wrong. Plo Koon would most likely back any cause Qui-Gon deemed worthy of pursuing. The rest of the council and his own padawan learner would probably contribute to the collective groan of ‘not again’.

In any case, no wanted criminal with a sane mind would dare show their face in a spaceport teeming with bounty hunters, so it was unlikely for him to actually succeed in any of the listed tasks and worrying about repercussions was moot.

Beside it, a different screen displayed the portraits of bounty hunters for hire. Qui-Gon didn’t think the Order would take it too well to his face being advertised on a screen such as this either.

Beside him, R2-D2 chirped inquisitively, its head rotating about to take in the sights around him. A few locals dressed in rags looked at it with unconcealed greed, but all thought better about it when they met the unamused gaze of the tall man towering beside it and hurried on their way.

The sound of a commotion behind him drew his attention and he turned around in time to see a fruits from a makeshift fruit stand go crashing onto the floor. Jar Jar stood conspicuously to a side, trying to salvage the tumbling fruits only to knock into the pole used to hold up one corner of the canopy roof. Thus dislodged, the entire structure came crashing down upon him and the elderly stall owner. Customers seated at open-air food stalls in the vicinity all turned to see what the ruckus was about while those perusing the streets were split between hastily ducking out of the way to avoid getting embroiled in the trouble and slowing down to watch.

With a resigned sigh, he strode up to his benighted friend’s rescue, not wishing for him to get into yet more trouble. R2-D2 followed, rolling along easily on three mechanical limbs. When he arrived, he was relieved to find Jar Jar lifting the canopy off themselves and that no one was hurt.

“Meesa most sowee,” said Jar Jar meekly to the elderly lady who was in the midst of dusting herself down.

Qui-Gon grabbed onto the pole and helped set it back up while R2-D2 rounded up the scattered fruits. Disappointed to find that there was nothing more to see, the crowd that had gathered dissipated.

“I apologise for the trouble my friend has given you. Are you quite alright?” Qui-Gon turned to ask the stall owner when he was sure he had secured the structure.

The woman laughed, a jolly sound that was coupled with the crinkling of the corners of her eyes and a faint trickle of yellow.

“Oh, don’t apologise. It’s been a long time since I last had such excitement,” said the woman, giving him a smile that revealed several gaps between yellow teeth.

Qui-Gon gave her a small smile in reply and bent over to help fix the stand, only to find that one of the legs was splintered.

The woman continued, “Your charming friend was trying to help get rid of the flies. Such a kind fellow.”

Qui-Gon shot a glance at Jar Jar, who was twiddling his thumbs in a show of innocence. He took one step back, and another, and immediately backed into someone passing-by behind him, tripped over his own feet and went sprawling onto his back.

“Ow!” yelped a familiar voice.

“Ani, are you alright?” asked the elderly woman, hurrying forward to help the boy up.

“I’m fine,” Anakin assured, untangling himself from the Gungan’s gangly limbs and floppy ears. He looked up and blinked when he recognised Jar Jar, Qui-Gon and their droid friend. “Oh, hi.” He picked himself up and extended a helping hand to the Gungan, who leapt to his feet with great ease.

“Where’s your other two friends?” he asked, coming to crouch beside Qui-Gon. He caught on to the problem immediately and scrunched his nose. “This shaft is broken, Jira, but I should be able to fix it,” he told the stall owner. “It shouldn’t be much of a problem. Things will be up and running again in no time. You’ll see.”

A fond smile adorned Jira’s face. “What will I ever do without you, Ani?”

Anakin beamed, glowing like a tiny star.

Just then, a strong gust of wind picked up from the west, tearing across the desert, bringing with it a fine mist of sand that stung Qui-Gon’s eyes and filled his nostrils. Instinctively, he angled his body to face downwind of the current.

“A sandstorm’s coming, Ani. Maybe you should go back home first.”

Ani gathered all the parts in his hands and stood with Qui-Gon. “I’ll bring this back to you first thing tomorrow,” he promised. The boy turned his attention to Qui-Gon. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

“We have a starship at the outskirts of the city,” said Qui-Gon. He reached out for Obi-Wan and felt a responding beacon not far away. Even as he felt his padawan draw closer, Qui-Gon knew that there was no time to get back to the Royal Naboo Starship. Judging by the speed the wind was picking up, their own respective travelling speed and the distance of the ship from where they were, they would probably end up finding permanent resting ground in the middle of the desert.

The wind hurtled past, drawing bits of sand hurtling past like a million tiny missiles, not sharp enough to draw blood yet, but enough to hurt. All around them, people were beginning to take down canopy roofs and shutter their windows. Jar Jar held his floppy ears pressed against the sides of his head to keep them from flapping in the wind.

“It’s too far!” Anakin shouted above the howling wind. “Why don’t you follow me home? And get your friends!”

As if on cue, Obi-Wan and Padmé appeared at the end of the street. His padawan turned to him at once, no doubt sensing his master, and began hurrying towards them. Qui-Gon weighed the situation and made up his mind in an instant. Swiftly, he thanked Anakin for his hospitality and waved for the other two to follow after the boy, pausing only long enough to make sure everyone in the group was following, including Jar Jar.

 

* * *

 

Anakin’s home was located in one of the many hive-like cluster of buildings erected a short distance away, built in a C-shaped ring so that the courtyard in the middle acted like a lagoon, providing some semblance of shelter from elements of the milder variant.

It was fortunate that Anakin had offered them shelter, for even as they pressed into the relative safety of the courtyard, the wind tore at them, ripping past fast enough that Padmé appeared to be half-floating as she pushed her way across the sand. Obi-Wan hurried forward, thinking to hold on to her, but instead felt his own turban unfurling around his head and flying away. He reached out to grab it, but Padmé’s hand caught it first. She held it out to him.

“Thank you,” he shouted.

Padmé’s response was lost in the torrent of wind buffeting sand into her facial orifice. She grimaced and turned away.

“Just there!” shouted Anakin, pointing.

Obi-Wan peered ahead at the cluster of houses through slitted eyes. Even viewing from without, the entire place emitted a feeling of being overly cramped, the assumption stemmed from the close distance between consecutive doors and the relative narrow width of the wedge of building. Narrow stairways led up to the doors that lined the higher floors, which meant that while the building itself was more than a single storey high, each apartment only occupied a single floor. As far as housings went, it wasn't the worst Obi-Wan had seen, but there was no mistaking the signs of poverty — here, the back of a rickety cupboard slumped against the door frame, barricading the entrance as a makeshift door; there, two missing windowpanes were sealed over with what appeared to be twigs of the local shrub compressed together and glued with mud. The entire place reeked of unwashed bodies cramped together in too-confined quarters and oozed of despair that leaked from every aperture of the building.

Anakin ushered them into a tiny house on the lower level and shouted, “Mum, I’m home!”

The five travellers piled into the confined space unceremoniously and closed the door behind them. Once they were out of imminent harm’s way, they proceeded to hover by the door, not wanting to proceed without first greeting their host. Even Jar Jar seemed to have picked up on this cue of social decorum and hung to the back next to the door. Outside, the howling wind tore at the synstone walls with vengeance, whipping up a sandstorm that peeled back the outer layers of wall like skins of an onion. As it picked up in frenzy, the gale emitted a high, keening wail that drowned out everything else without. Doors and windows rattled in their frames, threatening to be unhinged.

“Ani, is that y—”

From somewhere within the house, a middle-aged woman with her hair braided and held up in a bun at the back of her head came out, drying her hands on a towel. She pulled up short when she saw the ragtag band standing in her threshold. There was a flash of fear in her eyes, then they were averted to look at Anakin was tugging at her hand.

“These are my friends, mum. They don’t have anywhere to stay for the storm, so I brought them back,” said Anakin with boyish innocence, apparently not sharing his mother’s doubts about inviting strangers into their abode.

The woman tore her eyes away from her son’s face and turned back to them, looking like she wasn’t certain what to say.

Actually, more like she wasn’t sure how to voice her intent to boot them out of the house, which was any minute now, unless someone did some fast talking.

Qui-Gon shot a look at Obi-Wan and he stared back, heart galloping in his throat. He could face down a chamber of politicians, hold his own against an army of hostile soldiers, charm his way into the clique of snobbish nobles but he did not know how to explain to a slave woman why she needed to provide shelter to a band of interlopers. Things like these weren’t his speciality, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about having a demonstration of how much finesse he had in botching up a perfectly simple task in front of his master. Then again, it’s not like he hadn’t done stuff like these on his own before. It was just the stress of doing it in front of an audience that was causing him to doubt himself.

“We were passing-by the city when the sand storm was upon us,” Obi-Wan said, taking a small step forward. “Your son kindly offered us shelter until the storm has passed. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. These are my friends, Qui-Gon Jinn, Padmé Naberrie, Jar Jar Binks and Artoo Detoo. We would like to thank you for your hospitality. Rest be assured we will be on our way as soon as the storm is over.”

The woman’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly as she masticated upon cruel words her conscience would not allow her to speak. One did not survive as a slave on a lawless desert planet for so long by being kind to the point of foolhardiness. Obi-Wan gathered the Force around him and allowed it to wash over the tiny accommodation, instilling a sense of peace in the atmosphere, smoothing away any lingering suspicion and paranoia. The effect wasn’t as profound as what his master was capable of, and only succeeded in taking some of the edge off the tension in the room.

Before anyone could say anything, Anakin broke the silence and tugged on Padmé’s hand.

“Come on! Let me show you my droid!” he said, voice brimming with pride.

Padmé shot an uncertain look at their hostess while she allowed her son to drag her past the tiny alcove that led to his room. The astromech droid bleeped and hurried after them, perhaps to ensure that no harm came to its master’s handmaiden.

That still left four wayward travellers of dubious origins stranded in the living room of one impoverished woman’s house. Obi-Wan cleared his throat awkwardly and retrieved a few ration bars and food capsules he always kept on his person for those times such as when his master decided tea and breathable air would more than suffice as sustenance.

“Please, accept this as our paltry token of gratitude,” said Obi-Wan. He added on a smile for good measure.

The woman hesitated momentarily before accepting the gift.

“I apologise for the state of my place,” she said, eyes studying each traveller in turn. “But please, do have a seat.”

As soon as she had her back turned, Jar Jar slumped with relief and heaved a sigh, emoting rather expressively what the rest of them stranded within the cramped space felt but were more averse of letting show.

Qui-Gon stepped forward and clasped a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

_~Well done.~_

This time, a truly soothing energy permeated him and his heart slowed to a rhythmic trot. Warmth filled his chest and tingled his peripheries.

Qui-Gon leaned in and spoke into his ears. “You can’t calm others if you cannot calm yourself. Relax, Obi-Wan. You _know_  you are perfectly capable of handling the situation.”

“Perhaps I was too busy focusing on the here and now to pay attention to the possible future of me actually succeeding,” he replied.

The hand on his shoulder drew back and delivered a light smack to the back of his head. “Brat.” But Qui-Gon was smiling.

“Meesa muy muy likin dis place!” announced Jar Jar, stalking off to explore.

With the look of long-suffering man, Qui-Gon held Jar Jar and guided him elsewhere, distracting him. Thus left alone with no clue of how to handle himself, Obi-Wan decided to join their hostess at the back of the house where he assumed she was in the midst of preparing dinner before their untimely arrival.

**Author's Note:**

> When I first wrote this story, I wanted it to be uniquely Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon POV only. Then I realised that writing the entire story from their POV only makes certain characters like Padme sound very unreasonable and that's how Padme's POV got thrown into the mix. Let's just say that I actually really, really love idealistic Padme a lot even if in this fic I may sound somewhat condescending towards her. I think that in life, we need someone who's clear cut black and white in order to ensure things don't just all slip into chaos.


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